The Leading Man's Lies
by Tonight's The Night
Summary: "I'm the leading man. You know what they say about the leading man? He never dies." In the aftermath of the battle for Rabanastre, Vaan struggles to cope with the loss of his mentor. Balthier/Vaan. Post-game.
1. The Lies We Tell For Others

_Author's Notes:_

_Hello, everyone, and welcome! It's great to have you all reading, and I hope that this story ends up being as enjoyable to all of you to read as it was for me to write. But first, an introduction is in order. _

_Typically, when I start a story, I'll give a brief explanation of the general premise and any content warnings I expect the story to contain. In this case, both are fairly straightforward. This is a story about how Vaan deals with the events following the defeat of the Empire, particularly his grief over Balthier's apparent death. It will line up with the events of the epilogue, but will not follow the plot of _Revenant Wings_ (mostly because I haven't had a chance to play that one). Additionally, the story will have a romantic Vaan/Balthier slant, though for the most part, you can choose to ignore this if you wish, as the central focus of the story is about grief, reunion, and forgiveness, rather than romance. In certain fandoms, I'm known for taking the most unlikely of pairings and making them seem plausible, and that is, in a way, what I hope to accomplish here. I expect this story to be fairly short (by my standards, that means less than 50K, which I understand doesn't qualify as "short" by most definitions). I've already written out the first six chapters, so updates will be steady for a time._

_As for content warnings, there will be a bit of violence, some gore, and very possibly a sex scene once we get far enough into the story (though this will most likely be optional if you're really not into that sort of thing). Possibly some darker themes, as well, but nothing more intense than the source material. Ideally, this story will feel similar in tone to the game, with a bit more relationship development mixed in._

_That's all for now. Thank you so, so much for reading, and I look forward to hearing what you all think!_

* * *

Chapter One

"The war is over."

Ashe's words resonate across every channel, buzz in every speaker on every ship. Vaan draws in a breath and holds it, looking out at the horizon. Airships streak through the sky, but their missiles have stopped flying and shrapnel no longer rains down on Rabanastre. They have won, or close enough that it doesn't matter. The war is over. Dalmasca is free.

Penelo's words rip away the moment's fragile peace. "Look Vaan! The _Bahamut!_"

Vaan follows her gaze to the massive airship. It moves with inexorable slowness through the skies, a pillar of engineering so magnificent and terrifying that he doubts he will ever see anything like it again.

And it is going to crash in the middle of the city.

Already, its base scrapes the paling above Rabanastre. Massive chunks of metal crumble off the airship, plummeting toward the city streets. In a rare moment of clarity, Vaan understands exactly what will happen. _Bahamut's_ fragments will rain down on the city, shattering the paling and crushing thousands upon thousands of people. The battle is won, but everything they have fought for—the restoration of Dalmasca, the protection of its capital city—will be lost.

On the comms, there is talk of ramming the massive airship to knock it off course. The act will save thousands but doom the hundreds of soldiers on the ship. The most surprising thing, Vaan thinks, is that the announcement comes from Judge Magister Zargabaath. A judge, saving the very city he was ordered to attack only hours ago. It is a miracle and a tragedy all at once.

Vaan looks to Larsa, kneeling with his head in his hands at the back of the cockpit. Vaan is not sure who he grieves for now. His brother, twisted by a dark god and slain, in part, by Vaan's own hand? Gabranth, the man who saved Larsa's life at the expense of his own? Larsa's innocence, butchered and bleeding after everything he's seen these past few months? Any one of these would be enough to break a person, yet Larsa just sits quietly, a glazed, hollow look in his eyes as he listens to one of the Empire's most influential judges prepare to sacrifice himself to save Rabanastre.

"Hasty, aren't they?"

Vaan jerks in his chair, and the _Strahl _lists slightly to one side as he briefly loses control of the steering mechanism. He readjusts, but the greater part of his attention remains riveted on that voice. _His _voice.

"I think it's a little early to be throwing away our lives."

"Balthier?" A part of him knows that he should not be accessing the comms now, not when the airspace around Rabanastre is already so full of chaos, but he can't help himself. He has spent nearly a year with the sky pirate (a year of clever quips, hard lessons, and desperate hopes), and he knows that tone. It is the same tone Balthier used that day in the Nalbina Dungeons when Vaan found himself staring down three seeqs armed with clubs while he had only his bare hands to defend himself. It is the tone Balthier uses when he is about to do something heroic. Now, it sends a javelin of fear through Vaan's heart. "Balthier, where are you?"

The silence of the next few seconds is the longest of Vaan's life. Finally, the sky pirate's voice crackles from the speaker. "Ah, Vaan! Sounds like you made it out okay. The _Strahl's _a fine airship, eh?"

"Balthier, what are you doing?" Marquis Ondore asks, his voice loud and clear on the comms. It is the same exact question flailing around in Vaan's mind, yet lacking the utter horror he feels.

"Marquis!" Balthier says, as if surprised. "Stop that fool judge on the _Alexander _for me, would you? I'm just getting somewhere with these glossair rings . . ."

The pieces come together. Balthier finished fixing the _Strahl's _glossair rings a full ten minutes ago, with orders for Vaan to take off as soon as they activated. He would have had to be in the engine room, but the few lessons the man has given him on the operation of the airship have imprinted numerous facts in his mind, one of which jumps to the forefront now: It takes twenty seconds for a repaired glossair ring to charge sufficiently to allow for flight.

Another thing that takes twenty seconds: the walk from the engine room to the emergency escape chute.

Balthier and Fran are still on the _Bahamut._

Ashe snatches the comm from its hook and clicks the button. "Balthier, do you understand exactly what it is you're doing?"

"Princess. No need to worry. I hope you haven't forgotten my role in this little story."

* * *

_"Quite a performance," Balthier says, stepping into the palace treasury. _

_ Vaan draws back, pulse thrumming in his neck. "Who are you?"_

_ "Why, I play the leading man. Who else?"_

* * *

"I'm the leading man," Balthier says now, less than a quarter of a mile away, yet so far that he may as well be in Archades. "You know what they say about the leading man?"

Briefly, Vaan closes his eyes. When Balthier answers his own question, Vaan hears the lie in his voice as if he has known the man an entire lifetime rather than a single year.

"He never dies."

Twenty seconds later, the _Bahamut _regains power, its rings glowing bright as it lifts into the sky and changes course, away from the center of the city and toward the desert. It spews smoke from a hundred different places, and scraps of metal the size of Migelo's shop continue to fall, breaking apart when they hit the paling protecting Rabanastre. _Bahamut _will not make it to the Estersand.

"Listen to me, Balthier," Ashe pleads. "Get out of _Bahamut _immediately. _Please, _Balthier! You mustn't die!"

Silence on the comms. Vaan can barely spare the attention to pilot the _Strahl, _but he has to do something. Without thought for falling debris, he invades the _Bahamut's _immediate airspace, searching for a place to dock. There's still time. Balthier can set the thing on a course, find his way back to the _Strahl, _and they will all make it out alive. It is the only acceptable alternative, the only option Vaan will be able to live with. Because if Balthier is still on that ship when it hits the ground . . .

"Vaan," Balthier says, his voice calm even as _Bahamut _crumbles around him, "the _Strahl's _in your hands now. You'd better take care of her, you hear? If there's one scratch on her when I get back . . ."

The _Strahl. _It has taken months for him to convince Balthier to teach him how to fly it, but the man is still immensely possessive of his airship. This is the first time Vaan has been allowed to touch the controls without the sky pirate looming over his shoulder, and if there is one thing Vaan knows, it is this: Balthier would never let anyone borrow his airship so long as he still drew breath.

"Vaan, do you hear me? Take care of my ship."

He steels himself against the terrible pain ripping through his chest and guides the _Strahl _away from the _Bahamut. _There is so much he never got a chance to say, but now there is no time, and if Balthier wants to lie one more time as the world falls apart around him, Vaan will let him. Just this once. "Roger that. We'll be waiting for you."

_I'll be waiting for you._

* * *

He knows he will find nothing in the ruins of the imperial airship, but as soon as Vaan deposits Ashe, Basch, Larsa, and Penelo in the Marquis's care—hoping they will be able to handle themselves without bloodshed—he flies back to _Bahamut _and docks the _Strahl_ on one of the upper levels. Smoke continues to billow out of the airship, though it landed in the Estersand and lost power a quarter of an hour ago, and the floor wouldn't be considered sturdy by even the most lax of standards. He doesn't care. He has to know.

He wanders for hours. A few times, he has to pull a piece of cloth from his pack and cover his mouth so the smoke won't overwhelm him.

He doesn't find a trace of Balthier or Fran. A desperate part of him insists this is a good thing—if there are no bodies, they must be alive somewhere. But the more logical part of him—a part he once ignored, but which he's gradually developed over this past year—tells him that it is more likely they burned up in one of the numerous fires, and that the only trace he will find of them is a patch of soot indistinguishable from the ashes of so many others.

* * *

Long after night has fallen, Vaan flies the _Strahl _to the aerodome. He does not know proper landing procedures, but with so many people moving through the aerodome, it does not seem to matter. When a moogle tells him he must pay for the space he now occupies, he hands over the requisite amount of gil (a fortune to the orphan boy he used to be, but a pittance to him now), and walks out into the common area.

Penelo is waiting for him. She cries and calls him a fool as her arms wind around his neck. He returns the embrace, says all the right words, but feels nothing but a bleak darkness inside him where there used to be light.

* * *

Ashe, Larsa, and the marquis spend most of the next four days making political arrangements. They invite Vaan to sit in on the conference, but less than an hour passes before he can no longer tolerate it. He walks out, arms wrapped around his chest, as if he can stop himself from flying apart, broken beyond repair.

It hurts too much to go to the _Strahl, _so he goes to the Sandsea. Tomaj takes one look at him and hands him a pitcher of ale, telling him its on the house ("But only tonight," he adds. "Have to stay in business somehow, right?")

* * *

"I'm worried about you," Penelo tells him. Several weeks have passed since that day. "You've barely spoken. You hardly eat. You're not . . . yourself. I know it hurts, but there's nothing we can do except . . . except follow his last request."

The reminder hits him like a punch to the gut. The _Strahl. _He feels simultaneously guilty and intimidated by the thought of returning to it, though he suspects he will owe the moogles at the aerodome more money, considering how long he's left it there. What will they do if he doesn't come back? Sell the airship? Bring it to a scrap yard?

The idea is horrible enough to peel away some of his numbness. He is not ready to return to the airship yet, but he will not ignore Balthier's last request (and it _was _his last request. He knows that now). So he stands, swaying slightly. Penelo casts a worried look in his direction, then follows him out the door.

* * *

Balthier would be _livid. _

Up until this moment, Vaan has not allowed himself to think about the condition the _Strahl _is in. The few times he's allowed himself to think of the ship, he remembers it as it was the first time he saw it—pristine, unblemished, and fully functional.

After the battle against _Bahamut, _it is no longer in that condition. In fact, it is so scraped up and dingy that Vaan doesn't even know where to begin.

"Doesn't Balthier have a team of moogles on call to repair it?" Penelo asks.

"He never told me how to contact them." He feels numb. This is the sort of thing he _should _know, the sort of thing he's sure Balthier would have taught him, but now he feels adrift, a piece of skystone carried by the wind.

"I'm sure he'll have their contact information somewhere in the ship," Penelo says, desperation in her voice. "If we go on board."

"No." The word escapes his lips before he can guard himself against it, and Penelo's eyes dart to his face. After a few seconds of indecision, she reaches out to take his hand.

He pulls away before she can, muttering something about finding a bucket and some rags so he can start cleaning off the outside of the ship. Penelo does not feel this loss the same way he does (Penelo's eyes never followed Balthier's every move like his did. Penelo never opened herself up to Balthier's insults just to hear the sound of his voice. Perhaps that makes her a stronger person than Vaan is. He's too lost to care). She does not understand. He will just have to accept that.

Later that night, Vaan walks Penelo home, promising he'll get some rest. Her smile makes him think he may one day be as good a liar as Balthier was (_"You know what they say about the leading man? He never dies."_). As soon as Penelo disappears inside her apartment, Vaan returns to the aerodome. They spent the majority of the day cleaning the grime off her hull, but the airship is huge, and this problem, at least, is one Vaan can fix.

He scrubs through the night. Penelo finds him the following morning and joins him without a word. Together, they remove every trace of dirt, soot, and grime from the _Strahl's _hull. Satisfied, Vaan returns to his apartment (he has one of his own now, separate from the one he shared with Kytes and a handful of other orphans Migelo took in), and promptly collapses onto his bed.

His dreams are of fire in the skies and frantic pleas across the comms.


	2. The Lies We Tell For Ourselves

Chapter Two

Eventually, Vaan acknowledges the necessity of entering the airship. He doesn't tell Penelo he's going. He hasn't been inside since that day, and he expects the grief to hit him hard once he does. He is not wrong.

In contrast to the outside, the inner rooms of the ship are in the same condition they were before they first sighted _Bahamut_. That somehow makes it worse. The cockpit is free of clutter, the comms all hanging on their appropriate hooks. A fine layer of dust covers the controls, but the readouts are all still visible, if inactive. Balthier's chair has a slight dent in the seat from so much use, as does Fran's.

Vaan moves on to the passenger cabins. They are mostly empty. The sheets in the cot Vaan last slept in are still askew. But this room is nothing but a sleeping place. Really, he's been on the _Strahl _only a handful of times, so he has not had much chance to make himself at home.

There are two rooms, he knows, which have seen much more of their occupants than his. He enters Fran's room first. Hers has been outfitted with a circular double-bed draped in soft green sheets. The bed's legs are crafted of fine, dark wood and bolted to the floor so the bed won't slide around mid-flight. Beside that is a dresser, also made of fine wood. It contains mostly practical items, but as he opens the drawers (he knows he should not, but he does), he finds a few letters penned in a language he cannot read (The language of the viera, perhaps? It is a flowing script with looping letters and gentle twists, which seems in line with what he has seen of the viera). They may not even be letters. For all he knows, they are things Fran herself has written. It could very well be a bunch of grocery lists.

He is doing well to make it this far without breaking down. But the worst is yet to come.

Pulse pounding at the base of his throat, he slides the card key through the sensor outside Balthier's door, half-hoping it will deny him access and give him an excuse not to go inside. Unfortunately, the door glides open seamlessly, and Vaan steps across the threshold.

There are certain things he always expected to find in Balthier's room. Alcohol, lavish furniture, manuals on airship maintenance, a collection of guns and other rare weapons. And Vaan does indeed find all of these things. But it is a small envelope sitting at the foot of the bed that catches his eye. He hesitates. Entering Balthier's room is one thing, but poking through his letters? He reminds himself that minutes ago he examined Fran's personal letters without a hint of guilt, but this is different. He can _read_ these. A part of him suspects these are the last words Balthier ever wrote.

In the end, his curiosity wins out. He pinches the envelope between his thumb and forefinger and turns it over. On the back is a short note: _If you've found this envelope, please deliver its contents to their intended recipients. _

He opens the envelope and carefully removes the folded-up pieces of paper within. One is addressed to Fran (she will never read it, he thinks, so he will read it for her, but not yet, not until he can read it without feeling as if someone has rammed a hot fireplace poker into his heart). To his surprise, there is also a note for Basch, Ashe, Penelo, and even Larsa. And one addressed to him. He stares at the piece of paper for a long time, not reading it, just memorizing the shape of his name on the front, the way the V starts with a light flick of the pen and swoops down, then back up before trailing off as it stretches toward the corner of the paper.

Finally, he finds the resolve to unfold it and begins reading.

_I suppose if you're reading this, I've done something both suitably heroic and utterly careless. That said, let's get one thing out of the way up front: I am not, nor have I ever been, the heroic type. A hero, you see, is someone who is willing and able to exchange their life for __the greater good. A hero is unflinchingly brave, selfless, and loyal. A hero believes in justice, not in the rigid way of the law, but in terms of doing the right thing at any cost. _

_ I am no hero, nor do I wish to be categorized as such. As you may have noticed, heroes tend to be optimistic. After all, it takes an optimistic man to believe that there is enough good in this world to be worth seeking out. No, Vaan, I'm a cynic. I take what I want, usually in a way that raises the bounty on my head, and I expect everyone else to do the same. You see, if you suspect everyone around you of being as ruthless and pragmatic as you are, then you won't be surprised when they make off with the treasure while you're left rotting in a dungeon._

_ Of course, like all generalizations of this scale, there are exceptions. Even a self-admitted pessimist may, on rare occasion, find themselves in the company of someone brave, selfless, loyal, and optimistic. You will remember the day we spent in the Nalbina Dungeon. Specifically, the moments before you were knocked unconscious and dragged into an arena to fight for your life—a fight you may have lost if not for my intervention, I might add. There is__ one thing about that event I remember more clearly than anything else. I am, of course, referring to the moments before you were dragged away. I followed you, you see, so that you wouldn't wander off and leave myself and Fran short an ally. So I overheard what you said in that moment, before those seeqs turned their attention from their dead victim to you._

_ This is what you said: "He was defenseless."_

_I doubt you fully understand the impact of those words, even now. But they told me everything I would ever need to know about you.__They told me you would be a hero one day. Perhaps not in the storybook sense, but in the quiet way of those few people who are not afraid to die in the defense of the innocent._

_ This is, of course, why I resisted your attempts to follow in my footsteps. For one, heroes are notoriously bad at risk-assessment. Honestly, you all dive right into danger without a thought of how you're going to get out of it. And two, heroes so rarely make good sky pirates. You see, as a sky pirate, you need a certain level of cynicism in order to stay alive—something which, as I said, most heroes lack. It is, indeed, a trait _you_ lack. _

_ However, I would be remiss to leave my assessment of you at that. You have all the makings of a hero, and from what I've seen over the last few months, you're already starting to mature into one. From my observations, I have concluded several things, foremost among which is the fact that you are doggedly persistent and more than a little foolish. I suppose I should apologize for that last part, but I think we both know it to be true, and if these are indeed my last words to you, well, I'd best include at least one insult to make up for all the rather flattering things I've already written here. But really, Vaan, do try to think things through a little more, would you? I won't have you sailing my airship straight into danger without good cause. _

_ The airship is the last matter on which I need to write. If I haven't made this abundantly clear before whatever reckless, stupidly heroic action I've taken that has led to my untimely demise, the _Strahl _is yours. You'll find all the relevant paperwork in the compartment under the steering mechanism to transfer it to your name. The documents are forged, of course—I _did _steal the airship originally—but they'll serve well enough. Apart from that, you'll find extensive manuals on how to repair, operate, and otherwise handle the _Strahl's _finer machinery on the third shelf of the bookcase on the west side of my room. _

_ Take care of my ship for me. Don't let her go to the scrap heap. And if you catch wind of some great treasure, don't hesitate to fly her. The _Strahl _is like a fine woman—if you don't pay her enough attention, she will make your life miserable._

_ Oh, one more thing, before I sign off. I know I said that heroes don't make good sky pirates, but if there was ever anyone capable of being both, it would be you. _

—_Balthier_

Vaan rereads the note twice more, his vision becoming more blurry with each pass. At last, when he cannot distinguish one word from the next, he carefully folds it up and slides it into his pocket. Then, for the first time since that day, he curls up and weeps for everything he has lost.

* * *

He must have fallen asleep, he thinks, because he opens his eyes and finds himself slumped against the door of Balthier's room aboard the _Strahl. _He blinks, wiping his eyes. The deserts bordering Rabanastre cast a lot of particles into the air, and there are some days when he wakes to find his eyelids crusted shut with sand. It occurs to him that the constant flow of sand will quickly become damaging to the finer instruments aboard the _Strahl. _

It also occurs to him, as he sits up, that this is the first time he's slept without nightmares since that day. Sluggish, it takes him a moment to guess why this might be. Perhaps he slept better because the subconscious awareness that he was occupying Balthier's sanctuary tricked his mind into thinking the man was still alive.

He tries to ignore the part of his mind that whispers that the real reason he slept so well is because this room smells like Balthier, who, for whatever reason, always made him feel safe. That is definitely not the reason.

Unfortunately, Vaan is not as good at lying to himself as he is at lying to others.

* * *

Weeks pass. Every few days, his desperation for a night without dreams drags him back to Balthier's room aboard the _Strahl. _He has tried sleeping elsewhere (the pilot's chair, his old room, even the engine room), but nowhere else provides the sense of security that Balthier's room does.

After a month and a half of these visits, he starts coming here almost every night. By the time three months have passed, he cannot remember the last time he slept in his own apartment.

To clarify, he never sleeps in Balthier's bed—to do so would be crossing an undefinable boundary that he cannot yet bring himself to cross. Instead, he sleeps on the floor, at the foot of the bed, only occasionally borrowing Balthier's pillow to rest his head. He tells himself that as long as he allows himself nothing more, this is not an invasion of the sky pirate's space. There is nothing sacred about a bedroom, after all, and the man obviously expected someone to find the envelope full of letters (Vaan still hasn't delivered them to the rest of his companions, nor has he told Penelo that he's been inside the airship), so there is no reason why the room should be off-limits to him, no matter how personal it feels.


	3. A Shadow of Truth

Chapter Three

Five months after the fall of the _Bahamut_, Vaan is finally ready to allow others onto the _Strahl. _

"I can't believe how good everything still looks," Penelo says, walking the length of the main hall and peering into the cockpit. "I sort of expected there to be more dust."

Vaan doesn't say it, but he is the reason no dust has accumulated. Balthier charged him with taking care of the ship, and though he hasn't flown it since that day, he keeps it clean.

"Hey, Vaan," Penelo says, a little hesitantly. He looks over to her (smiling, of course; he has grown much better at keeping his inner turmoil out of sight), and waits for her to say whatever she wants to say. "I've been doing some research. On how airships work, I mean. I think if I could get my hands on the right tools, I might be able to do some of the repairs myself. That will save us some gil on expenses."

Despite how good a liar he's become, he can't help the way his lungs seize up at the suggestion. The hopeful glint in Penelo's eyes dims slightly. "I just thought that it might need some maintenance," she continues. "According to manuals I've been reading, we should really be doing a thorough check of the engine room every month."

"You're right." It hurts to say the words, but this truth, at least, he can give her. "We can go to the market and pick up some tools tomorrow. It'll be good to have the ship in top condition again."

* * *

Penelo was not exaggerating the depth of her knowledge. Currently, she hangs upside-down from a metal bar, fiddling with the wires between the ship's engine and the glossair rings. These past three days, she has repaired all manner of things, as well as performed essential maintenance on various machines. As Vaan watches her work, he thinks of a man with copper-colored eyes hanging in much the same position as he made adjustments to the ship's core. The handful of times he saw Balthier working on the airship were eye-opening, not only in regards to the functioning of the engine, but as an insight into the man himself. There had been a simple contentment to Balthier when he worked on the _Strahl, _as if whatever forces made him feel the need to continuously act as if he really was the leading man in a play were briefly lifted, leaving the man beneath unguarded and utterly at ease.

* * *

Seven months after the end of the war, the last of the imperial soldiers pull out of Rabanastre. When Vaan asks why it took so long, Ashe explains that the imperials, for all their faults, instilled a sense of order in Dalmasca, and if removed abruptly, the sudden absence of authority would have likely caused all the suppressed discontent and frustration to explode, rather than decompress gradually.

"Why the sudden interest in politics?" Ashe asks. Gone are the shadows of bitterness in her eyes. Their disappearance makes her look younger, more approachable, but he has seen her in battle and knows that she can make herself as unyielding as steel.

"It's not sudden," he says, a little defensively. Ashe lifts her eyebrows slightly, and Vaan lets out a breath. "It's . . . I spent so much of my life wanting to be a sky pirate, but hardly knowing anything about the rest of the world. It's not that I'm interested in politics. I'm just sick of people thinking I'm ignorant."

Ashe regards him for a long moment, her expression turning serious. "Vaan, do you know why, in the end, I chose _not _to take revenge against the Empire? Why I chose to destroy the Sun-Cryst instead of use it?"

He frowns. "Because it was the right thing to do?"

Ashe shakes her head. "I did it because if you—you, who lost your brother, your home, and your innocence to the Empire—could abandon revenge for the sake of what was right, then I had no reason to hold my own hatred so closely." She lifts her cup and takes a sip of tea, her eyes faraway. "For a time, it actually seemed as if you were all working against me, telling me to give up on searching for the power to destroy the Empire. I resisted because of my own hubris, because I was so certain that I had the right of it. You see, Vaan, I didn't need anyone to tell me what I was doing wrong. What I needed was someone to _show_ me how to do what was _right_." Her eyes flicker to his face. "I saw you abandon your hatred for the Empire. In the end, that is what gave me strength to do the same. For Dalmasca. For the greater good."

Her words are startlingly close to those in Balthier's letter (the letter he has read so many times that he can recite it word-for-word, though up until this moment, he's been unable to accept those words are being completely genuine).

"Do you understand?" Ashe asks.

"Yeah." He closes his eyes. "Yeah, I think I finally do."

* * *

That night, he returns to the _Strahl, _sits down in the pilot's chair, and starts the engine. The vibrations hum through the body of the ship, subtle and constant, like the whisper of sand scraping against the ship's hull at night. Vaan lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The broken shards of his heart mend, just a little, as he flicks a series of switches to get the glossair rings spinning at the requisite speed for takeoff.

He has always longed for the freedom of the skies. The day of the battle, he flew to escape, to save himself and his friends. Before that, he flew under Balthier's watchful eye, flapping his wings but not yet free of his cage. These past seven months have seen his wings clipped, his desire for freedom abandoned, his optimism caged and mutilated.

But tonight—_tonight—_he flies, free at last.

* * *

The euphoria of slicing through the open sky lasts only a few hours before he is forced to land. He has spent most of the fuel remaining in the ship and will need to have Penelo replace the fuel rods. Exhausted, he returns to Balthier's room, lays down a blanket on the floor in front of his bed, and sleeps soundly.

* * *

By the tenth month after that day, Vaan has taken every living member of their old party for a ride on the airship. He does this for two reasons. The first: He wants to show everyone how much better he's become at piloting it. The second: It is time for him to finally distribute all of Balthier's letters.

Ashe cannot reach the end of hers without weeping, though she does share a few sentences with him as she struggles to regain composure. Penelo reads her letter in silence, eyes sparkling with nascent tears, but she manages to keep herself together from beginning to end. Basch reads his with the same solemn dignity he shows in everything he does. Vaan doesn't get to see Larsa's reaction, as the fledgling emperor is busy in Archades and does not have the time to come to Rabanastre, but a few days later, Vaan receives a note of thanks. Larsa and Balthier were never close—in fact, he is quite sure that if necessity had not brought them together, they would never so much as spoken to one another—but Larsa's words of gratitude ring true, and Vaan knows he would not take the time to reply if Balthier's letter to him hadn't stirred up some response.

The only letter that remains unread is Fran's. Vaan remembers the night he found that envelope. He promised himself he would read it in her stead once he was able. But while he thinks he is strong enough now to get through it without breaking down, reading her letter somehow no longer seems like the right thing to do. So he leaves it in her room, atop the bed, then returns to the pilot's chair and pulls his own letter out of his pocket.

The words are faded, the parchment nearly falling apart at the creases from being folded and unfolded so many times. A few grains of sand cling to the edges of the paper, the product of too much time in the middle of a desert.

The letter is one of only a few things that still has the power to hurt him. Vaan relishes the pain because it proves he is still alive, in his soul as well as his body. He has so thoroughly oppressed the former that he needs the reassurance.

* * *

A year has passed. Vaan stands in the aerodome, viewing the _Strahl _in all its glory. It is tuned up now, every flaw repaired, every scratch buffed out, every trace of grime scrubbed away. It is magnificent, like its owner (The _Strahl _will always belong to Balthier. As far as Vaan is concerned, he's just borrowing it for a while).

Vaan takes out his letter again, his eyes going automatically to a handful of words near the bottom. _Take care of my ship for me. Don't let her go to the scrap heap. _

"Never," he whispers, holding the piece of parchment close to his chest. "I'll never let that happen."

In a year's time, Vaan has nearly managed to lock the grief away. Except for the letter, which acts as a battering ram to the fortress he's built up around the shredded, broken part of him that is lost (and alone, more alone than ever because he has managed to convince Penelo that he's content even though he's more miserable now than he was the day he received news of his brother's death. He is alone because he no longer knows how to share his grief with her, because she has moved on and he hasn't, she is whole and he is broken, she is vibrant and alive while he is living a lie so that she can stay that way).

His lies have grown so much better, so much more refined. Like Balthier, in a way (Balthier could be refined even covered in blood). Vaan can even believe his own lies, most of the time. It's only when he reads Balthier's letter that he again becomes aware the deception that has taken root in his mind. So much of who he is now comes down to what is in that letter (_"I know I said that heroes don't make good sky pirates, but if there was ever anyone capable of being both, it would be you."). _He is, of course, only a shadow of those things, but it is that shadow which defines him, and for now, that is enough.

* * *

That night, as usual, he sleeps at the foot of Balthier's bed.

He wakes up to find the _Strahl _sailing over the Mosphoran Highwaste.


	4. The Liar Returns

Chapter Four

"It would seem our little thief managed to avoid leaving any scratches on our ship, eh?"

Balthier stands near the edge of the private hangar where the _Strahl _is docked. He must admit he is pleased with his airship's condition. He told Vaan to take care of it, but the boy has never had much of an eye for detail, and honestly, he didn't expect the ship to be in such good repair.

"If we are going to steal it back," Fran says, standing at his side, "we'd best do it before the aerodome grows too busy."

"That we should." Balthier slides a large envelope from his pack and leaves it near the door. Vaan will find it, he is certain. The boy sticks his nose into everything, and that curiosity will not allow him to ignore the package when it becomes apparent that the _Strahl _is no longer where he left it. As soon as the envelope is in place, Balthier walks up to the ship's loading hatch, enters the code, and steps back as a staircase unfurls from the bottom of the ship. _It's good to be back, _he thinks, grabbing his traveling pack. There is only one, as he sold all the valuable things he's stolen this past year in exchange for exorbitant amounts of gil, most of which has been siphoned off into several dozen accounts bearing false names.

They don't have time to dawdle. He sends Fran to do a quick check of the engine, then makes his way to the cockpit. Like the hull, it is immaculate, free of sand and dust, the interface polished, without even a fingerprint to indicate that anyone has flown the ship in months. Again, the attention to detail surprises him. Perhaps Penelo has recently done a thorough cleaning of the ship; she was always more attentive to such things than Vaan. Although this level of cleanliness seems excessive, even for her. Balthier himself does not keep such a clean airship.

Fran returns from the engine room. "Everything is in place. The engine appears to have recently undergone maintenance."

Though he has not been in the ship in a year (to the day, because Balthier is nothing if not punctual), he feels an instinctive need to go look at the engine himself. If the little thief changed anything . . .

Fran's look of wry amusement eases some of his tension. "Fear not. It is in much the same state as you left it, only recently tuned."

"Good," he says, voice clipped. "If he'd modified anything, I'd have to track him down and beat him senseless." He doesn't mean it (of course not—his words may sometimes be harsh, but it has been a long time since he has deliberately done anything to hurt the boy). He's the leading man, and the leading man does not lower himself to fisticuffs with inferior opponents.

Satisfied (if still a little perturbed by the obvious care that has gone into maintaining the _Strahl _in his absence), he activates the engine, powers up the glossair rings, and sends a signal to the aerodome's nighttime operator to open the hatch above the ship. The _Strahl _rises into the air without the slightest bit of resistance. In a way, Balthier is disappointed—he rather likes how fickle his ship can be, as that makes his expert control over it all the more satisfying.

"Set a course to the northeast," he tells Fran. "I've been hearing rumors of a treasure near Archades. Better to reach it before anyone else catches wind of it."

"Aye." Fran inputs their coordinates, making sure to modify their flight path so they will steer clear of the Necrohol of Nabudis. It's been more than three years since the disaster, and Balthier suspects it will be at least three _hundred _years before the Mist there has dissipated enough for people to tread safely through the area.

They don't switch to autopilot right away. Where would the fun in that be? No, he takes the controls in his hands, and as soon as he is clear of Rabanastre's soaring buildings, he tests out his airship's capabilities. It could be the routine maintenance, or it could be the fact that he hasn't flown her in ages, but she seems more graceful than ever, heeding his every command as rises and plummets, banks and twists. He pushes her hard, gaining speed until the readouts in front of him max out.

The sky embraces him like an old lover, and he recaptures the absolute freedom he has longed for every night these past twelve months.

* * *

Even the greatest of dive talons cannot fly forever. As they reach the edge of the Mosphoran Highwaste, he flips the controls to autopilot. "I suppose I'd better get some rest. If the winds are with us, we'll land in Archades late tomorrow evening."

Fran nods. She will watch the controls while he rests, in case anything goes wrong. When he wakes, he will do the same so she can sleep. It is how they have always done things.

Balthier leaves the cockpit, walks down the corridor that bisects the ship, and slides his systems access card through the slot beside his chamber door. Though he has occupied many beds in the past year (and shared a handful with partners whose names he hardly remembers), he will be glad to return to the comforting folds of his own sheets. Perhaps he will even pick one of the books off his shelf and read for a while before settling in. Really, he is inclined to enjoy his first night back on his ship.

The door slides open soundlessly, and all thoughts of relaxation vanish from his mind. For a moment, he stares uncomprehending at the bundle of blankets and splayed arms and legs lying on the floor at the foot of his bed. A corpse? It seems unlikely that anyone could sleep through the aerial maneuvers he's been performing for the last few hours, so it seems reasonable (in his shock) to assume that someone has been killed and left in his bedroom for some inexplicable purpose. But . . . no. The bundle shifts, rolling to one side as the person within tries to find a comfortable position in which to sleep. As their movements reveal a portion of their face, Balthier experiences his second shock of the night: this is not some stranger who has taken up in his airship; it's _Vaan_.

The boy's eyes are closed, lashes fanning out across sun-kissed cheeks. His hair, silver-white with the faintest touch of gold, sprawls across his neck, where his heartbeat pulses, just barely visible, beneath his skin. His tossing and turning has left his bedraggled blanket askew, revealing the sweep of his collarbone as it disappears behind his vest (if it can even be called a vest. It may not have sleeves, but to Balthier's mind, a vest should not bare one's midriff . . . Though in this case, he must admit he likes the effect). The boy wears the same pants he so often wore during their travels, though they are cleaner than Balthier remembers them.

These details should not be so striking, Balthier tells himself. He has seen Vaan in much the same state of dress many times, and he has always been distantly aware of his striking appearance. Yet now he sees the subtle changes. Broader shoulders, better proportions, full cheeks (Vaan may not be as timid or jaded as most children of the street, but Balthier remembers a time when his face looked perpetually gaunt from malnutrition, the mark of a boy who has known hunger). Individually, each of these changes are minute enough not to matter, but together, they create an image that Balthier rarely glimpsed during their travels.

Vaan is no longer a child. It's a startling realization, one Balthier has to shunt aside before it can further distract him from the present matter, which is the fact that _Vaan is sleeping in his bedroom without his consent. _

"I do hope you're not planning on staying here long."

The little thief's eyelids fly open, his entire body going rigid as if Balthier has dumped a bucket of ice-water on him. His eyes (a soft gray, like fog just before sunrise) focus first on Balthier's boots, riveted (he has always had an impeccable fashion sense . . . but really, they're just _boots_). Then, slowly, his gaze pans up until they are staring at one another, Balthier looming, Vaan looking up as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing. A maelstrom of confusion, hurt, and awe shimmers in the boy's eyes (other things too, things Balthier refuses to put a name to at the moment, for if he does, he will not be able to hold onto his blasé facade).

"You're alive." The words are quiet, almost reverent.

"So it appears." He gives an exaggerated shrug. "Of more immediate importance, I'm tired and wish to retire for the evening, so if you'd like to explain what it is you're doing in my chambers, be quick about it."

The boy blinks, uncomprehending. Then he stands, swaying as the ship lists underfoot. Balthier crosses his arms, waiting, but instead of an explanation, the little thief starts demanding answers. "Where have you been? Why didn't you let us know you were alive? How . . . Are we _flying_? Where are we? Is Penelo—"

Balthier can only tolerate this drivel for so long. He cuts Vaan off with a sharp gesture, a little surprised when the boy immediately falls silent, hurt burning in his eyes (Balthier never meant to hurt him, not to such a degree, but he does not know how to ease the boy's anguish). "Why are you here?"

Something like shame ripples across the boy's features. He mumbles something, the words too indistinct for Balthier's ears.

"Speak up, would you?"

Vaan casts a furtive glance his way before looking down at his feet. "This is the only place where I don't have nightmares."

Balthier is no stranger to nightmares. As a boy, he endured many sleepless nights, at first fearing imaginary monsters, and later, confronting the reality of his father's descent into madness (though he knows now it was not truly madness. The phantoms his father saw were not figments of his imagination, but something real, and the research was not so much an obsession as it was a twisted attempt to bring prosperity to their otherwise unremarkable house). Then there are the other dreams, the dreams of when he was a judge. Compared to most judges, he has little blood on his hands, but the faces of those he was required to pass judgment on still haunt his dreams.

All things considered, he can see the draw of a place the nightmares don't penetrate. That said, he is not about to let sticky-fingered street urchin sleep in his chambers. "Out."

"Balthier—"

"_Out. _We can discuss this further when I wake."

Vaan shies away at his tone. One of many advantages of always being in control of oneself is the fact that whenever that control slips, it is both instantly noticeable and very effective. He watches the boy shuffle out of his room, then taps the button beside the door to close it. Later. He will deal with the little thief later.


	5. A Lie of the Heart

Chapter Five

Hours pass. Balthier tosses and turns. His mind circles, focusing on details such as why he didn't take five minutes to check the airship for stowaways before setting out and why, of all places, Vaan would find comfort in his bedroom.

If those were the most frustrating puzzles left to him, he might have managed a more restful slumber. But though it shames him to admit, these questions are nothing but a breeze in the whirlwind in his mind. No, it's the image of the boy, cocooned in a ratty blanket at the foot of his bed (like a dog, he thinks, for only dogs sleep on the floor like that), yet still somehow managing to look striking. The memory alone is enough to stir certain . . . urges within him.

It's shameful, really. He thought he'd put away all such notions for the boy long ago. There was, after all, a half a decade of difference between them (more than that if one accounts for the boy's immaturity). In any case, he has no business regarding Vaan in such a way. He prefers his lovers to be gone by the time he wakes in the morning, and it could never be that way with Vaan. The boy is too attached to him as is (Vaan was hurt because Balthier disappeared, _grieved _for his apparent death). The thought of a night of exploration with the boy is enticing, but also impossible. One night becomes two, a troublesome thief becomes an ally, a quest to rescue the boy's kidnapped companion becomes a twist of fate which pulls him into a quest for a stone that turns out to be nethicite. Balthier has played this game before, and he knows there are no winners.

He tells himself it does not matter anyway. Vaan follows him because he represents the future the boy wishes to claim for himself, not out of any physical inclinations. If one of them is to open that door, it will not be him (cannot be him).

* * *

Fran does not seem surprised when Vaan enters the cockpit.

Then again, Fran rarely seems surprised about anything. In this case, he thinks her lack of surprise is due to her acute hearing, which likely allowed her to overhear his (all too short) reunion with Balthier.

Balthier.

Balthier is supposed to be dead. He vanished after the _Bahamut _crashed right outside of Rabanastre, his body never recovered. Vaan had been so sure that if he'd survived, he'd have left some clue (and Vaan had spent hours combing the ruins of the massive airship, so he knows there were no traces). At the very least, he'd expected that Balthier would return to let them know he hadn't perished in the crash. But instead he'd disappeared without a trace, abandoning the rest of them to their grief. Abandoning _him. _

How could he be so selfish?

It is not until Fran speaks that he realizes he has voiced his thoughts. "He did not wish to cause you pain."

His lungs seize up. What does it matter what he intended? It doesn't make the grief go away. It doesn't make his betrayal sting any less (_"You know what they say about the leading man? He never dies."_). Because it _is _a betrayal. Vaan trusted Balthier to be selfish, and instead he decided to risk his life saving everyone, and while Vaan cannot fault him for the impulse, there is still the fact that he never dropped by to tell anyone he'd survived.

"The city was swarmed with imperial soldiers," Fran says, a plaintive note in her voice. "Even the best sky pirates cannot avoid so many watching eyes, particularly after announcing his presence for all to hear. It was necessary for everyone to believe we had perished."

"Necessary?" The word sounds hollow. "Was it _necessary _for him to leave the rest of us behind like that?"

Fran doesn't answer right away. Her eyes remain fixed on the displays before her, though the look there is more distant than he can fathom. At last, she speaks. "Before we returned to the _Strahl _tonight, we left a note in the hangar for you to find. It would have given you a destination, in case you still hoped to chase after us. We did not expect you to be on board when we took off."

A twinge of guilt punctures a hole in his anger. "Would've been nice to have that note a year ago."

Fran merely nods and says, "I'm sorry."

* * *

Lacking anywhere else to go, Vaan heads to the ship's galley. The kitchen is small but luxurious, with a stove powered by fire magicite and an insulated box kept cool by ice magicite. Vaan has yet to see their like elsewhere. He and Penelo shared a wood-burning stove in the old apartment Migelo gave them in exchange for work, but they'd never have been able to afford magicite strong enough for an icebox. The first time he saw it, he had to ask Fran what it was and how it worked (that happened a lifetime ago, it seems, though really it has been only a year and a half).

Regardless, the luxurious appliances mean that he has actually stored away a fairly impressive collection of foodstuffs, so he opens the icebox and retrieves a few slices of meat and vegetables and makes himself a sandwich. It may be Balthier's ship, but Vaan is the one who's been keeping the kitchen stocked.

He eats, then leans back in his seat, letting his eyelids drift shut. Though he has been sleeping in Balthier's room lately, he is not so far removed from his life on the streets. When everyone is either a quick-fingered thief or someone who prefers to boot you out of their doorway, you learn to catch a bit of sleep at every opportunity and wake at the first hint of danger.

It does raise a question about how he managed to sleep through the _Strahl _taking off, but he attributes that to the fact that he has spent enough time piloting it that the vibration of its engines are more soothing than alarming.

Of course, now that he is no longer in the sky pirate's bedchamber, there is nothing keeping the nightmares at bay. Suppressed so long, they return with a vengeance, and he is subjected to memories of that day. This time, he is on the _Bahamut _with Balthier, watching him insert new fuel rods into the engine to replaced the ones cracked by the Mist surging throughout the ship during their fight against Vayne. The sky pirate works with calm deliberation, flaming debris raining down all around him.

"Balthier," Ashe says, her voice distorted by the failing communications equipment on the _Bahamut_. "Do you understand exactly what it is you're doing?"

Vaan remembers this, remembers glancing back to see Ashe's face going white. But now, in the dream, he devotes his attention entirely to Balthier, to the lie in his voice and the resolve on his face. "Ah, princess, no need to worry. I hope you haven't forgotten my role in this little story. I'm the leading man. And you know what they say about the leading man?"

Vaan holds his breath, a massive chunk of metal falling from above and rending one of the floor panels asunder. This is the lie that has haunted him for a year, some of the last words Balthier said before the communications cut off.

"He never dies," Balthier finishes as the engine starts up. The sudden restoration of power sends shock waves through the ship, and the already unstable structures crumble further, hundreds of bits of metal pelting them.

The nightmare diverges from reality then. Rather than making an escape, as he must have, Balthier (and Fran, she's there too, though Vaan can hardly focus on her) stops short as a massive chunk of the ceiling collapses in front of them, blocking their exit. "Damn."

"We have to get out of here," Vaan says, grabbing the man's upper arm and dragging him toward the center of the ship. They cannot escape this way, so they will have to find another dock that hasn't become unusable. But then one of the main support beams above their heads falls, landing with a resounding crash two paces in front of him. They are trapped. And that is not the worst thing. No, the worst thing is the way Balthier's leg bends (backwards, at an unnatural angle) as it is crushed under the support beam. The worst thing is the look on his face. Pain, shock, fear . . . and worst of all, a sick sort of resignation, as if he knows how this nightmare ends and believes there is no other way.

Adrenaline thrums in Vaan's veins, but even the boost of strength is not enough for him to heave the support beam out of the way. A moment later, Balthier's fingers wrap around his upper arm. "Enough," he says. "There's nothing you can do. You should quit this place while you still can."

"I'm not leaving you," he yells (but he _did _leave him once, on that day, even if he didn't know it at the time, and that is something he has never been able to forgive himself for).

"I'll not have us both perish here," the man says. "Go. Take care of the _Strahl _for me."

The _Strahl. _Clarity strikes hard then. For a year, he has taken care of the _Strahl, _buffing away every scratch, helping Penelo fix the engines, scrubbing dirt and dust and sand from every surface. These things should fill him with pride, but each action is tainted because what is the _Strahl _except a poor substitute for its owner? Why should he bother caring for it when the only person who deserves to fly it is gone, presumed dead? How could Balthier think that a shiny hunk of metal could make up for the fact that he won't be around anymore?

"Vaan," Balthier says, almost tenderly. Vaan realizes he is crying and lifts his head to meet the man's eyes. "There's nothing you can do now."

He shakes his head, still desperately shoving at the support beam that pins the sky pirate where he lays. It is not enough. He cannot budge that weight. No matter what he does, it is not enough.

He thinks it never will be.

* * *

At last, Balthier gives up on trying to sleep. His mind bustles, and he cannot shut it down long enough to rest. The boy should not have this effect on him, no matter how unexpected his presence aboard the _Strahl _is.

_ Better to just drop him at the next gate crystal and tell him to go back to Rabanastre, _he thinks acidly, annoyed at the boy, though it is not his fault that Balthier cannot keep his own thoughts in line. At least getting him off the airship will remove any temptation he presents.

He stops outside the private room the boy occupied the handful of times he flew on this ship as a passenger, but when he knocks, there is no response. He opens the door with his access key anyway, finding it empty. No one has slept here in months.

The next logical place to check is the cockpit, but he is not there either, and when he casually inquires about Vaan's whereabouts, Fran tells him he wandered off to the galley hours ago. _Should have known, _Balthier thought, feeling an unexpected surge of fondness. The boy ate like . . . well, like a street urchin desperate enough to risk losing a hand for thievery.

The dismal sentiment is enough to diffuse the warmth in his chest. There is nothing endearing about a boy who can eat half his weight in food in a day. It's costly, and Balthier only cares for costly things if they somehow benefit him.

A faint noise from within the galley gives him pause. Curious, he removes his boots (they will _thump _against the tiled floor and alert the boy to his presence) and pads into the cramped kitchenette. The little thief is slumped over in one of the seats, one cheek resting on the table. It looks dreadfully uncomfortable, but he does not think that is the reason for the anguish twisting the sleeping boy's face. Vaan is far from a restless sleeper, or so Balthier's earlier observations would imply, so the obvious tension on his face seems out of place, especially compared to the peaceful look he'd worn when Balthier first discovered he was on board.

As he watches, the boy lets out a cry, followed by a slur of muffled words Balthier can't make out. His fingers twitch, and his eyebrows furrow. Whatever haunts his dreams is distressing enough to steal away every trace of peace on his face, and it takes only a few seconds for Balthier to realize he cannot stand there and do nothing.

He nudges the boy's arm. "Easy now. It's just a dream," he says (but he knows the torment of nightmares, knows the worst of them eat away at the soul, and even though he is annoyed with the boy, it bothers him deeply to see him in such distress). His hand slides down Vaan's forearm, smoothing the fine hairs there.

At last, the pain on the boy's faces eases, though he doesn't wake. When Balthier realizes they are practically holding hands, he withdraws and takes a seat across the table from Vaan. And then he waits.


	6. Truths Unveiled

Chapter Six

Nearly an hour later, Vaan stirs, eyelids flicking open. He glances up, eyes widening when he sees Balthier sitting across the table from him. For a moment, they are silent, though Balthier can see the questions burning in his little thief's eyes. At last, he gets up, retrieves a bottle of rum from one of the hidden cupboards (untouched, which either means Vaan hasn't found it or for some reason has decided not to partake in it), and pours them each a glass of the stuff. "Let's make a deal," he says, picking up his own glass and taking a sip. "You have questions, as do I, so we will sit here and take turns answering one another until one of us passes out."

He expects an argument. Not because his suggestion is actually objectionable, but because Vaan argues about nearly everything. But this time is different. The little thief regards him solemnly for a moment, then takes a long drink. "Do I get to start?"

"Very well."

"How did you escape the _Bahamut_?"

"The same way we escaped the _Leviathan,_" he explains. "Fran and I commandeered an atomos. We had to do some repairs first. Most of the vehicles had been taken by soldiers fleeing the ship, and this one had been left behind because no one could find the time to insert fresh power rods into it. A simple fix, really."

"You found an atomos that everyone had left behind? _T__hat's _how you got out?"

He smiles a little at the incredulity in Vaan's voice. "You may be surprised by how much of a sky pirate's life revolves around luck. I suspect things might have turned out differently if fortune hadn't favored us that day."

Vaan's face falls, but he doesn't say whatever it is he's thinking. Another change. Balthier is accustomed to the boy blurting out every stray thought that pops into his head. _It seems he's grown up some while I've been away, _he thinks, taking another sip.

In any case, it's his turn to ask a question. "What's your last name?"

Vaan's head snaps up. "My last name?"

"Yes. You've never mentioned it. I'm curious."

"Well . . . Old Dalan started calling me 'Vaan Ratsbane' back before this all started."

Balthier shakes his head. "Before that. Your family name."

Vaan takes a breath. "Sebarial," he says quietly. "But I haven't used that name since my brother died. Why would I? It's not like I have any family left, and we weren't nobility to start with." Vaan takes another long drink (Balthier suspects he will pass out within the hour, at the rate he's going). "Took us long enough to figure out _your _name, anyway . . ."

"True, but if you recall, I have a rather significant bounty on my head." He pauses a moment, considering. "I'm told the princess is looking forward to her coronation. Have you spoken to her recently?"

Vaan grimaces. "I've been a little preoccupied," he admits. "I talked to her a couple months ago, over dinner, but Penelo sees her more than I do. She mentioned that Ashe is busy keeping up appearances, and that's why she's sort of drifting away from us, but . . . I don't know. Can you really drift apart from someone who fought alongside you for most of a year, no matter how long you go without seeing them?"

Balthier gets the sense that they are no longer talking about the princess. He stares into his drink for a minute, thinking about how to redirect the conversation, but Vaan interrupts. "Why didn't you ever tell us you made it out of the _Bahamut _alive?"

This question strays close to things he'd rather not talk about. "I _did _tell you, Vaan. As I recall, I reminded everyone the leading man never dies. Wasn't that assurance enough?"

Vaan shoots to his feet, the flash of rage so abrupt that Balthier goes stiff with shock. "No!" Vaan yells. "No, it _wasn't _enough! Because you didn't mean it! You didn't think you were going to make it out of there, so you said that so we could convince ourselves that you'd be fine. But you _didn't_, Balthier. It was a lie, and we all knew it. _I _knew it, and I was just the stupid kid tagging along while you played the leading man! How could you do that to me—to us?"

Silence. For the first time in years, he finds that he has no idea what to say or how to turn this situation to his advantage. Because Vaan is right. It _was _a lie, or he'd expected it to be. It hadn't occurred to him that it would sound so transparent (or that Vaan, of all people, would be perceptive enough to know he was lying). The accusation shatters all the shields he has erected around himself, and he cannot keep the guilt from his face. "There was nothing any of you could have done, and if you'd tried, you'd have put your own lives at risk for a futile mission. Considering that you had both the princess and Archadia's future emperor on board at the time, the risk was too great."

Vaan scowls. "I thought you didn't care about politics."

"I _don't, _but it's more difficult traversing a war-torn country than a peaceful one, and in the event that I made it out alive—which I _did—_I wanted to have the opportunity to conduct my business without having to sidestep soldiers at every turn."

The boy regards him silently, arms crossed. His eyes burn with a resentment Balthier has not seen in him since those first days, when the boy was obsessed with avenging his brother. And all that bitterness is directed at him, for leaving, for not sending word of his survival, and Balthier cannot help but acknowledge he is _right _to be angry.

He exhales slowly, fitting each of his masks back into place before he speaks again. "If you're so desperate to believe I was lying that day, then I can drop you at the next gate crystal and you can go back to Rabanastre and pretend I'm still dead."

Vaan flinches as if he's been struck. His anger evaporates in a second. "I just . . . I wanted to know why you left without letting us know you were alive. We meant that much to you, didn't we? You must have cared, at least a little, about what would happen to us when you left."

He takes the last sip of his drink, then—seeing that Vaan has also finished his off—picks up the bottle to refill their glasses. "Moving on," he says, as if this last part of the conversation never happened at all. "It's my turn to ask a question."

Vaan gives him a petulant look but allows him to speak.

"What have you been up to this year, aside from taking care of the _Strahl_?"

The petulance gives way to guilt. Really, the boy's moods are more mercurial than the _Strahl _on a bad day. Balthier can hardly fathom how the boy leaps between raging and sulking, between prideful defiance and shame. "Not much," he answers. "Mostly, I've been here, on the ship."

_Ah. Finally something worth pursuing. _"And? Have you found any great treasures or gone on any adventures in my absence?"

To his surprise, the boy remains sheepish. "I haven't gone far from Rabanastre. Nothing out there has caught my interest."

"Nothing? Not the mysteries of the Nabreus Deadlands or the vast expanses of the Cerobi Steppe?"

Vaan shakes his head.

"I will admit I'm surprised. I didn't teach you how to fly the _Strahl _so she would sit in an aerodome for the rest of her life. Have you even flown her since the fall of _Bahamut_?"

"Of course I have! Just . . . You wouldn't understand."

"And what, pray tell, would I not understand?"

"I was waiting for you to come back."

"You've already established that you thought I was dead. You'll not accomplish much in life if you wait on the whims of a dead man." It is hardly the best reply, considering what Vaan has just admitted, but already, he is tired of this tripe. If he were not a man of his word (and he is. For all his faults, he _is _a man of his word), he would walk away to let the boy wallow in his frustration.

He drinks, long and deep, and when he sets his glass down, he is marginally more composed. "It's your turn, though I'd prefer if you refrain from bringing up my insufferable selfishness. There must be some other line of inquiry you're interested in pursuing."

Moments pass. Vaan drinks, his gaze distant. At last, he sets his (now empty) glass on the table and speaks. "When did you start to consider taking me on as your apprentice? It had to be before you taught me to fly the _Strahl_."

It is, Balthier will admit, an interesting question, and he has to ponder on the answer for a full minute before he is ready to explain himself. "I suppose the idea first occurred to me the night we met."

The boy's eyes widen. "That long ago?"

Balthier shrugs. "Consider it logically for a moment. The palace had been heavily guarded ever since the Imperial occupation began. To complicate things further, it's a maze of secret rooms and corridors that don't exist on any map, many of which have likely not seen any visitors in decades. It's said that not even the royal family knows all the paths through the palace—and considering Ashe is the only remaining member of said royal family, that may very well be true." He pauses a moment, remembering that night, remembering his first glimpse of the boy darting through the corridors. "You see, Fran and I were only able to infiltrate because the fete that night meant the palace would be seeing more traffic than it had in nearly two years. We intended to break in during the party, as the guests were arriving, then slip out when people started departing. It was a mission we'd planned for weeks, but it was still risky, perhaps even foolhardy."

Surprise flickers in Vaan's eyes. Smiling to himself, Balthier continues. "As we made our way into the lower levels of the palace, however, we encountered something we weren't expecting: you." He leans back, folding his arms in front of his chest. "It was, as you can imagine, quite an unusual sight. A young thief, practically still a child, obviously too poor to afford decent clothing—"

"_Hey_."

"—Really, how would anyone expect someone such as yourself to infiltrate the most heavily guarded building in Rabanastre with no backup and only a laughably inferior sword at his belt? It's rather like a Giza Rabbit traipsing into a wyvern's lair and making off with its hoard. If you'd been caught digging around in the treasury, you'd have been executed. Yet not only did you do all this unaided, but you did it more effectively than Fran and I could have hoped. You see, our original plan was to poke through a few hidden rooms we'd managed to find maps of during our preparations. When we looked over those maps later, it became apparent that the treasury was not included on any of them. It was only because we decided to follow you that we made it into the palace treasury at all. You'll have to tell me sometime how you managed that, by the way. I always meant to ask.

"Naturally, I didn't want to lose track of such a capable young thief, no matter how poor his manners. That's why I didn't simply throw you off the parapet that night and retrieve that stone from your grasp, you see. The stone was valuable—more so than I initially suspected—but I'd found a treasure even more valuable that night: I'd found someone who would, if given the opportunity, surpass me one day. My clever little thief."

He pauses, letting that sink in, but Vaan's response is not what he expected. "You made that up."

"Whatever do you mean?"

The little thief's eyes narrow. "You never thought I was clever. Every time you spoke to me, it was to point out how careless or stupid I was being."

"Then you misunderstood my intentions," he says, irritated. Did the boy honestly not understand why he'd acted so dismissive? "I realized you responded better when you felt you had something to oppose, so I denied your every attempt to make me your mentor so that by the time I did eventually start offering you bits of advice, you would accept them without argument. Make no mistake, Vaan, I made you my apprentice the very first night we met. How could I not, when you'd proven so much more resourceful than you had any right to be?"

The boy flexes his jaw, then glowers at the table. "You called me a fool."

Balthier raises an eyebrow. "Oh? When?"

"In your letter."

A cold shock courses through his chest. The letter. He'd nearly forgotten. _Had _forgotten, until this moment. He'd left an envelope full of letters in his chambers, in case he perished, one for each member of their party (plus Larsa, because if there is any chance of surviving a bad situation, it pays to keep in touch with the local benevolent rulers). In his haste to leave Rabanastre, he'd never retrieved them, never thought what would happen when someone (Vaan—it would invariably be Vaan) finally decided to go through his belongings. But of course they'd been found. And of course, of all the things he'd written, Vaan had picked up on the one detail Balthier hadn't meant seriously.

"You're not a fool, Vaan," he says quietly, for there is no apology that can rectify what he has inadvertently allowed the boy to believe. "Impulsive and stubborn, yes. But never a fool. Except for at this moment, as that is the very last thing I meant for you to take away from that letter, which should have been obvious to anyone with even a pinch of sense."

"Right. Because the rest of the letter was so much more believable. Like I'm really some sort of hero. If you hadn't noticed, my biggest role in what happened that day was flying the _Strahl. _I _ran away, _Balthier. Because you told me to. Because I thought you'd be right there with us, not on the _Bahamut_, trying to repair the glossair rings."

"Would you have rather I had let it fall and crush Rabanastre instead?" he asks. Not an accusation, merely a question.

Vaan opens his mouth, then snaps it shut, looking away. "Your letter said heroes don't make good sky pirates."

Despite the situation, Balthier finds himself smiling. This is perhaps the most honest he has ever been with the boy—it may be the most honest he will ever be with anyone. It is . . . freeing, to be so open. As freeing as taking to the skies for the first time. "Sky pirates run," he says. "Heroes stay and fight to the very end." He reaches out, touching the back of Vaan's hand (hesitating, though he never hesitates; uncertain, though he is never uncertain). "So, my little thief, now that you've had a few hours to think about what you want to do next, I have a question for you: Will you stay and fly with me, or will you go back home?"

Hope sparks in Vaan's eyes. "What kind of question is that? Of course I'm staying. We can send a message to Penelo and the rest of them next time we land."

Balthier's smile (a real smile now, with only a thin veneer of wry humor to it) grows wider. His little thief will stay. It is everything he could have hoped for. "Then fly we shall, until we claim all the world's treasures as our own."


	7. Lies Told in Letters

Chapter Seven

Balthier admits to himself that he is impressed with the little thief's tolerance for alcohol. Really, he'd expected Vaan to pass out within an hour at the rate they were drinking; the fact that he remains lucid is actually quite remarkable.

"Why didn't you open this?" Balthier asks, holding up the empty bottle. They discarded their game half an hour ago, and have since lapsed into the casual sort of conversation companions share after many months apart. "It certainly wasn't hard to find, so why not partake?"

Vaan shrugs, eyes far away. Another change. The boy Balthier met at the royal palace rarely stopped to think, and the distance in his expression seems out of place. "Didn't think you'd want me to open it."

He raises an eyebrow. "That's never stopped you from prying before."

Another shrug. "Why's it matter?"

"I'm curious, and you're evading the question. You believed me dead. What _I _might have wanted should have been no concern to you."

Vaan's eyes focus on his face, sharp and alert. Even after half a bottle of rum, he remains stubbornly unaffected, only a slight slur to his voice to indicate he's intoxicated at all. In fact, now that Balthier thinks about it (thinking _hard_, because though he is good at hiding it, he is not quite so unaffected by the alcohol he's consumed), Vaan is _too _clearheaded. "You've been casting Poisona on yourself to remove the alcohol from your system," he says.

The boy lifts his eyebrows, his expression innocent. Too innocent. "What makes you say that?"

"In the past hour alone, you've had six cups of rum. You should be sloppy or passed out by now, yet you're barely tipsy."

"Maybe I've built up a tolerance."

"Or perhaps you're lying."

Vaan's expression doesn't change as he shrugs. "It's not like you haven't done the same."

Irritation swells beyond the fog of drunkenness. Scowling, he calls to mind the matrix for a Poisona spell, tracing the air under the table with his fingers. It activates, but the effect is negligible. He's never been particularly good with magick. When it was the six of them traveling together, he could rely on Ashe or Penelo to handle that sort of thing. Even Fran, who specialized in weaponry, had more talent for it than he did. But it had never occurred to him that Vaan might have a knack for spellcasting. Perhaps that is his own pride (surely a child fresh off the streets could not have more of a talent for magick than him), or perhaps it is the fact that magick is a weapon for intellectuals, whereas swords and knives are weapons for people like Vaan.

"You," he says to Vaan, "are proving much more frustrating than I remember."

"It was because I didn't want to dull the pain."

The statement seems so irrelevant that it takes a solid minute for Balthier to understand that Vaan is explaining why he never opened the bottle of rum. Balthier suddenly wishes he were sober—at least then his wits would be working at full capacity. "Why not?" he asks at last, tired of trying to reason through it.

Vaan hesitates. "It hurt when you left," he says. "I had the _Strahl _to take care of, but it . . . it's just an airship, Balthier. Just a metal shell with some skystone and an engine. But the pain . . ." Eyes closed, he shook his head. "It was the only thing that felt real. It was the only thing that _mattered_. You were gone, and . . ." He closed his eyes, voice dropping to a whisper. "You were gone."

He is not sure which concern to address first: the bitter shadow of pain on Vaan's face or the fact that he just insulted the _Strahl. _He settles for the former. "I suppose I should apologize," he says, but no apologies make their way past his lips. Balthier is even worse at apologies than he is at magick.

"Yeah," Vaan says, getting to his feet. His eyes remain downcast as he walks out of the galley.

* * *

"Have you made amends?" Fran asks when Balthier stumbles into the cockpit, still drunk. He sits down in the pilot's seat only to find the controls locked. Fran's doing, no doubt.

"Made amends for what?" he asks, hoping to steer her away from the conversation. It is a futile attempt.

"If you cannot see how deep his scars run, perhaps you should invest in spectacles."

He makes a dismissive noise. His father wore spectacles. He thinks he'd rather go blind than have one more thing in common with the man.

* * *

Not knowing where else to go, Vaan retreats into one of the passenger cabins, laying down the handful of things he was carrying on him when the _Strahl _took off in the middle of the night with Balthier at the helm.

Among those belongings is the note. Briefly, he considers burning it with a Fira spell. It would be a fitting end for the scrap of paper that has both held him together and made him bleed this past year. But even as he considers it, he knows he won't. Can't. Whatever.

Instead, he carefully unfolds it and reads it, the faded script taking on new meanings.

_"I am not, nor have I ever been, the heroic type." _

_"I__ take what I want, usually in a way that raises the bounty on my head, and I expect everyone else to do the same.___" __

__ " . . . heroes so rarely make good sky pirates." __

"Liar," he whispers, then tucks the letter back into his pocket.

* * *

"So where are we going?"

Balthier glances up from the controls, wary. The boy stands at the back of the cockpit, his expression opaque. The fact that he's so unruffled after how their last conversation ended is alarming enough to chase some of the fog from Balthier's mind. He really shouldn't be piloting the ship in his condition, but he cannot justify asking Fran to remain at the controls for another shift. Even viera, with all their mental discipline, cannot stay awake forever.

"Archades," he says shortly.

Vaan nods, crossing his arms expectantly. Balthier gives the book a look dripping with contempt, hoping it will make him go away. Vaan either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "You're still drunk."

"The ship's on autopilot," Balthier says. "I'm only here in case of emergency."

"I can handle things for a while if you want to catch a nap."

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow. "I don't recall giving you permission to pilot my ship."

"Actually," Vaan says, quickly, like a sprung trap, "you did. That day when you left to repair the Bahamut so it wouldn't crash in the middle of the city. Remember?"

_Damn._ "You had the ship for a year," he says petulantly, "and you did nothing with it. That's hardly the treatment it deserves."

"Yeah, because being piloted by a drunk sky pirate is so much better."

The boy has a point, he admits to himself, relinquishing the controls. "If anything goes wrong, hit the alarm above the steering mechanism. It'll sound throughout the ship. That way, if we're about to crash, I can take over."

To his surprise, the boy doesn't make some dismissive comment or roll his eyes, but nods seriously. "I will. Goodnight."

He very nearly walks out without another word. But, he tells himself, it is important that he has the last word in this conversation, if only to subtly remind Vaan who's really in charge here. So he says, "Goodnight," and then heads to his chamber.

* * *

All in all, Vaan is pleased with how things worked out. Balthier is good at lying, but he's prone to underestimating the perceptiveness of his companions. From their exchange, Vaan has reached several small but important revelations.

The first: If forced to choose between his pride and the well-being of his airship, Balthier will choose the airship. Vaan supposes he could draw other conclusions from this—that Balthier equates the _Strahl_ with freedom, which is indeed more important than pride, or that the man is more sentimental than he appears.

The second: Like most people who are drunk, Balthier suffers impairment in his ability to reason. That is, after all, the only reason he would do something so stupid as flying an airship while inebriated. Also, he's not good enough at magick to purge the alcohol from his system.

The third: Balthier trusts him to pilot the ship, and in that trust Vaan can place a fragment of hope for . . . well, for things he cannot even admit to himself. Things he shouldn't want but does, things that plague his dreams and bring light to the darkest corners of his nightmares. Things . . . _feelings_ he is not ready to acknowledge but which are becoming harder to resist with every passing minute aboard the airship.

* * *

Balthier wakes an hour before they touch down outside Archades. To his relief, the little thief has neither left his post nor managed to crash the airship in the six or so hours since Balthier left him, and he relinquishes the controls without argument at Balthier's request.

"So what's in Archades?"

"Draklor Laboratories. Where else would we be going?"

"Is that a good idea?"

He glances over his shoulder to find Vaan standing inches behind him, close enough that he can feel the boy's body heat, smell the trace of desert air that clings to his clothes. The combination is distracting enough to banish the witty remark he was about to make from his mind, and instead, a pregnant silence fills the cockpit.

"Why Draklor?" Vaan asks, his voice careful, guarded.

"Why not?" The flippant reply does not deter the boy as he'd hoped. If nothing else, Vaan has grown patient in their year apart, and his soft grey eyes glimmer with expectation. Balthier's eyebrow begins to twitch. "I have unfinished business there."

"What business?"

_Making sure no one has started digging into my father's research_, he thinks, keeping his face neutral. "There are many things of value in the laboratory, any number of which would sell for a fortune on the black market. What other reason would I have to go?"

Nearly a minute passes, and Balthier thinks his little thief has decided to drop the subject. Then he hears the cockpit door sliding open behind him, followed by Vaan's voice. "He's gone, Balthier. Rebelling against a ghost doesn't do you any good."

Balthier wishes he had something to throw at the boy. Since he doesn't, he settles for staring sulkily at the controls as Vaan walks away. It's not an act of rebellion, he tells himself fiercely. His business in Draklor isn't personal in the slightest.

On the navigation screen, he notes the _Strahl's_ position and contacts the aerodome in Archades under the guise of a private airship. They relay a rehearsed speech about landing protocols, then guide him into the city's airspace.


	8. When to Run, How to Lie, Who to Trust

_Author's Notes:  
Sorry for the wait, everyone. This chapter just _would not _cooperate. The next chapter should be finished soon. I owe a big thanks to everyone who's still reading, and an even bigger thanks to those who have reviewed! You guys make all the effort worth it._

* * *

Chapter Eight

Vaan returns in time to watch Balthier land the _Strahl. _After a year apart from his airship, Vaan expects Balthier to have trouble reacquainting himself with the controls, but the man guides the _Strahl_ effortlessly into the aerodome's hangar, touching down so gently that Vaan barely feels the impact.

Fran sits in the copilot's chair, her silver-white hair tumbling over her shoulders, and like Balthier, she looks utterly _right _in her seat, like she could stay there for a thousand years, untouched by the world. Vaan thinks about their brief visits to Eruyt Village, about how the viera there remain unmoved by the turnings of the world beyond. Fran may have left her village behind, but here, she recaptures that serenity. The airship is to her what the Wood is to the viera of her village.

No, only Vaan feels out of place, relegated to the second row, absently tapping his knees with his fingertips as he looks over Balthier's shoulder. It has been a long time (a year) since he was a passenger on this ship, and he cannot help but think that Balthier is a better pilot than he will ever be.

"How long will we stay in the city?" Fran asks, shutting off her monitor as Balthier powers down the engine.

"We infiltrate Draklor tonight after dark," Balthier replies firmly. "If at all possible, I'd like to leave before dawn tomorrow."

Vaan leans forward. "What are we going to do until tonight?"

Balthier glances back at him, a razor-thin smile touching his lips. His heartbeat quickens, thrumming in his neck, and he swallows hard. Rather than answering, Balthier stands, tilting his head toward the exit hatch. "I suppose I _could _tell you . . . but wouldn't you rather see for yourself?"

It is the same thing he said the first time Vaan ever laid eyes on the _Strahl, _and for a moment, it is as if he cannot breathe, cannot bring enough air into his lungs to speak. Mute, he follows Balthier to the exit hatch, Fran loping after them. They emerge into a vast room rimmed with mechanical equipment, and a team of moogles appears from a half-sized door near the edge of the room.

"The works," Balthier says, tossing them a pouch of gil without so much as glancing in their direction, along with a pass card which will allow them into the engine room.

Vaan watches them file in through the _Strahl's _entry hatch, then turns back to Balthier. "I always thought you and Fran took care of the maintenance."

"Most often, we do," Fran says. "But what we know of the ship, we learned during our travels. There are things a professional crew can do that we cannot."

Balthier stretches. "Besides, so long as we have the option available to us, we may as well take advantage." Then he frowns, as if something has just occurred to him. "By the way, how _did _you manage to keep the _Strahl _in such good condition while Fran and I were away?"

He grimaces. "Penelo did most of the repairs. The ship took a lot of damage during the battle for Rabanastre." Even though he stands less than five paces from Balthier, he shudders at the memory. "Those first few months, she did a lot of research, figuring out how to get everything working again. She probably knows the engine room almost as well as you do."

Balthier stops suddenly as they step out into the main plaza, turning to him. "First rule of being a sky pirate: _Never _leave your mechanic behind. If you step foot onto the ship, so should they."

His eyebrows slant. "It's not like I left the engine running . . ." he mutters as they start walking. Clusters of people—mostly Archadians, though he sees a few people who look like they might be from Dalmasca, or even Rozarria—mill around, checking luggage, claiming baggage, buying tickets. Compared to the convenience of a private airship, it seems like a big hassle. The Archades aerodome is more crowded than the one in Rabanastre, and almost at once, old instincts resurface. Within a bare handful of seconds, he identifies several easy targets to pickpocket, constructs a strategy for each grab, and reminds himself that he doesn't _need _to pickpocket anymore.

He feels the flutter of watching eyes. His head snaps up, but before the alarm can turn into paranoia, he realizes it's Balthier watching him, a faint smirk on his face. "What?" Vaan asks, a little defensively.

"Would I be correct in guessing that you've yet to give up your sticky-fingered tendencies?"

_Am I that obvious? _He laced his fingers behind his head, adopting a casual gait. "What d'you mean?"

"Don't be thick. Wait until we're outside. Security's tight in the aerodomes."

They weave through the bustling crowd. Here and there, Vaan glimpses armored men—imperial soldiers, he notes, an ember of old anger flaring in his chest. Not as many as there would have been a year ago, but enough that Balthier's advice is well-founded.

Of course, Balthier has a habit of underestimating him. By the time they leave the aerodome, Vaan has lifted three pouches of gil, a delicate gold bracelet, and a gold-plated fountain pen, all without anyone raising an alarm. Pickpocketing is the skill that kept him from starving to death on the streets, and his fingers are as quick and clever as ever.

"Fran, would you mind picking up a few things?" Balthier asks, handing Fran a folded up sheet of parchment. "I've a few errands to run, and if we want to be out of this city by dawn, we'll need to split up to cover more ground."

Fran surveys the list, gives Balthier a faintly reproachful look, and says, "Shall we meet here at sunset?"

"Sunset it is."

They split up, Fran heading toward Molberry, Balthier walking toward Trant. Vaan trails after the sky pirate, reflecting on the differences between Archades and Rabanastre. Certain parts of Rabanastre were always crowded—the Muthruu Bazaar, the fountain, the shops in East End—but where those areas seem lively, the crowds of Archades are more restrained. There are no commoners here, only aristocrats. The first time he'd been here, he'd thought them callous—if Ashe, the rightful princess of Dalmasca, can cut her way through jungles, plains, deserts, and mountains, then he sees no reason for the nobility here to act so prim and proper, especially when the slums are within an hour's walking distance.

"This place hasn't changed at all, has it?"

Balthier's eyes flicker to him. "It's difficult for a city so rotten to do anything but continue to decay, even with a benevolent emperor at its core." He slows, lowering his voice. "Be careful. The people here may wield words instead of swords, but if you're not cautious, you'll find that a well-placed rumors can get you killed as quickly as an assassin's blade. Ah, here we are." His voice brightens as they reach a cozy brick building nestled between two sleek, shining towers. An awning pokes out from the stonework, faded by the elements, tattered at the edges, and the windows are etched with fancy lettering. Here in Archades, city of steel and secrets, the little shop looks out of place, but Balthier pushes the door open and steps inside, so Vaan follows.

The scent of ink and parchment permeates the air, and several tables of knickknacks and other oddities dot the spaces not occupied by bookshelves. "What is this place?" he asks.

"A bookstore."

"I figured that much out," Vaan says, annoyed. "But why are _we _here?"

"To buy books." Without any further explanation, Balthier heads toward the back of the bookstore. For a moment, Vaan thinks this must be some secret meeting place for sky pirates or informants—that there must be a back room where people get together to trade secrets, or that the clerk minding the shop will direct them to a place where they can get in touch with the black market—but from the way Balthier pages through several tomes without a word makes it seem like book-buying is truly their only purpose here.

Vaan waits, reminded of the years before his parents died, when they would bring him and Reks with them on shopping trips because they were too young to be left alone. It doesn't take him long to grow bored, but he's no longer a child, so he keeps his complaints to himself, still half-expecting something more exciting to happen.

Still, he's never been all that patient, so after about five minutes of standing around, he finally speaks. "Okay, what are we _really _doing here?"

"I never was a particularly good mentor to you, was I?" The words are soft. Almost . . . regretful.

Vaan looks away. "You taught me more than you probably think." _When to run. How to lie. Who to trust with your life but not your coin-purse. _

Balthier assembles a stack of books, then hands them to Vaan. "One of the most important parts of being a sky pirate is knowing how to blend in. This won't be the last time you find yourself among nobility. Aristocrats make lucrative targets, but if you want to get close to them, it pays to be . . . cultured."

He bristles a little. "I can be cultured."

The man raises an eyebrow. "As cultured as a rat in a restaurant, perhaps." Balthier shakes his head, laying another book on the stack. "These are some of Archadia's more influential classics. Being able to reference them will make you seem educated, and quoting them may even do something about that accent of yours."

"I don't have an accent," he mutters. "And it's not like I've had any formal education anyway. What's the point? Everything I need to know, I've learned by doing."

Irritation sweeps across Balthier's face. He crosses his arms, adopting the scornful stance Vaan saw a hundred times in the year they spent together (and missed every day in the year they were not). "Do you want to be my apprentice or not?"

"Of course I do," he says, though he wants so much more than that, wants Balthier's admiration, wants to be worthy of Balthier's respect, wants those moments when the man looks at him not as a child or a fool but as if he's the only person in the world, like the world itself could cease to exist so that it's only the two of them, standing still in a maelstrom of chaos.

"Then do as I say," Balthier tells him, then tosses a pouch of gil to the shop clerk. "I need these sent to the aerodome—the private packages line."

"Of course, sir." The man begins wrapping the books in paper, tying each package with a length of string and sliding them carefully into bags. It's more fuss than Vaan has ever seen anyone show a bunch of books, and he once again wonders how anyone gets anything done around here when they're so concerned about acting proper.

"Your books will be waiting for you upon your return, sir."

"Excellent." Balthier turns toward the door. "Come along, Vaan. We haven't time to dawdle."

"_I'm _not the one dawdling," he mutters, but his words are lost to the chime of the door, and even if Balthier has heard him, he offers no response.


	9. A Distracting Truth

Chapter Nine

Balthier takes a shortcut through Trant District, cutting through several sidestreets to reach a cluster of restaurants which caters to the local aristocrats. He has in mind a number of objectives, the foremost of which involves teaching his little thief how to blend in with high society. A difficult task, considering who he's dealing with, but he has faced more daunting challenges before.

With the high turnover rate of waitresses, cooks, and anyone who finds themselves in the unfortunate position of serving a demanding populace, he is quite confident no one here will recognize him, though he does take care to peer through the windows of the cafe they're visiting to check for familiar faces. "Do you suppose you could manage an Archadian accent?" he asks Vaan as his eyes flit across the seating area. "It would be better if you didn't draw unnecessary attention." _At least no more than you already will. _

Vaan's glance can only be described as surly, but he complies. "How is this, Master Balthier?"

His eyebrows twitch. _Surprisingly distracting, _he thinks, desire fluttering beneath his breastbone. He squashes it mercilessly. Even if he wanted to act upon it, this is hardly the place. "Not bad. But no names. The people here believe me dead, and I'd rather keep it that way."

"Certainly, sir," Vaan says. He's overplaying the accent a bit, but it's close enough that it's unlikely anyone will notice. "Lead the way."

Balthier walks up to the counter, where an array of croissants, scones, and fruit tarts are displayed in a glass case. After a cursory glance, he meets the clerk's patient gaze. "A blueberry scone, if you would. And what have you to drink that's good for a summer's day?"

She describes some fruity concoction laced with lemonade. He orders one for himself, then glances at Vaan, who stares at the bakery case, eyes wide. "Order whatever you like."

He is not certain whether to find it endearing or annoying that Vaan immediately selects not one but _four _different pastries and asks for a glass of "whatever's good" in an (admittedly decent) Archadian accent. The girl behind the counter gives him an odd glance but complies, and a few minutes later, they secure a table outside in the sunshine.

"Stop," Balthier says as Vaan picks up a strawberry tart between his fingertips and lifts it to his mouth. The boy hesitates, eyebrows furrowing. "This is not the Muthru bazaar, and you are not eating something off a stick."

A note of resignation winds through Vaan's voice. "You're going to try and teach me manners, aren't you?"

"Etiquette is an important skill."

"So is diplomacy, but Ashe still has to apologize to people every time she invites me to a party."

Balthier stares at him, hoping he does not look as amused as he actually is. Self-restraint, he is beginning to realize, is a finite resource, and the more time he spends in Vaan's presence, the faster his supply of it dwindles. "You do realize you shouldn't view that as an accomplishment, don't you?"

The boy shrugs. "So you want to teach me how to hold my utensils and how to fold my napkin in a neat triangle before placing it on my lap—and _not _next to my plate, because that's improper, and _definitely _not on _top _of the plate because that's supposed to be some grave insult to the cooks." Vaan laces his fingers behind his head, reclining in his chair. "Penelo and Ashe couldn't teach me etiquette. What makes you think you can?"

"You will find that I nearly always get what I want in the end."

Something hot and dark flickers in Vaan's eyes. Anger? Alarm? Normally, Balthier prides himself on being able to pick apart subtle flickers of emotion, but this expression is gone in an instant, and he finds he is unsure whether he saw anything at all. Despite his social ineptitude, the little thief is adept as lying with his body language. If, indeed, he is lying at all.

Vaan grabs a croissant from his plate and tears off a piece with his teeth. "It's not that I don't get the purpose of blending in, but here's the thing: I can't be that person. I can't stand there and pretend to be part of the gentry like you can."

"Why ever not?" Balthier snaps, irritated. _You seem to have no trouble deceiving me, _he wants to say. _It should be easy for you to conceal your identity. _

Vaan goes quiet for a moment, looking out across the tables. He lowers his voice. "Well, look around. Wrought-iron chairs with embroidered cushions, umbrellas at every table so people can sit in the shade, fancy little croissants and fruit tarts, and whatever these bumpy things with the berries are—"

"Scones."

"Scones." Vaan nods as if Balthier has just proven his point. "This is a playground for rich people with nothing better to do," he continues, crossing his arms. "It's a place where people who've never had to worry about survival go to socialize. It's a place for people to waste time lounging around and looking nice. It's . . ." He closes his eyes, then picks up his half-eaten croissant. "Penelo's my best friend, you know?"

"That's . . . quite a change of topic," Balthier says, his voice guarded. He imagines the girl—sweet, tame Penelo, who never made waves, whose loyalty never faltered no matter how grave the danger—sitting somewhere in Rabanastre, worrying about Vaan, missing him, _waiting _for him, and even though Balthier would never wish her harm, an ugly, possessive part of him wants to wring her neck for daring to be the subject of Vaan's musings.

"It was a couple months after my brother died that it happened," Vaan says, oblivious to the simmering anger behind his cool facade. "Penelo's parents had died about a year before that, during a raid, and my brother . . . Well, you know that part of it. Point is, Penelo was the only person I had. This was before Migelo took us in," he adds as an afterthought. Balthier leans forward, fascinated in spite of the roiling tension in his chest. "Anyway, Penelo and I . . . We were hungrier than we'd ever been. I can remember one day, looking at her, how sunken her eyes were. She barely even looked alive. That was how thin we both were. I'd started stealing again—before my brother died, he and I would do some pickpocketing here and there, but nothing big. The city watch could chop your hand off if they caught you stealing, and it was worse after the imperials invaded. We only ever stole a little at a time, from people who wouldn't miss it. Just pocket change, you know?"

Since he seems to be waiting for a response, Balthier nods. "Go on."

"So I'd started stealing again. But pocket change isn't really enough to live on, and the desert gets pretty cold at night. We slept in alleys, or in doorways, and most of the time that was enough, but . . . See, the thing is, we were so hungry—it felt like we'd been hungry for months—and after a while, it wears your body down. Penelo got sick. Picked up a cough one day, and it just got worse, and_ worse_, until it sounded like someone had scraped out the inside of her lungs, and all I could think was that I'd wake up one morning and she'd just be dead." His voice falters. "And we didn't have any money for medicine, so—" He breaks off, sucking in a breath to steady himself. When he goes on, his voice is calm, even dispassionate. "We had no medicine, and no one cared about us. So one night, after Penelo fell asleep, I broke into Migelo's shop. He sells all sorts of stuff, everything you could need except weapons and armor. Thing is, he actually lives in an apartment above the store, so when I broke the window, all he had to do was walk downstairs and he caught me rifling through his potions and antidotes."

"So you ran," Balthier guesses, knowing it's the sensible thing to do.

"No," Vaan says, shaking his head. "If I'd run, I'd have had nothing to show for it. Penelo would have died. Besides, I was young, and I'd never actually been caught stealing before. I just kind of froze, you know? Course, Migelo had seen me around. The east end is a goldmine for pickpockets—a lot of people pass through there, and as long as you don't go after any of the regulars, they're pretty oblivious. But Migelo knew me, knew more or less where I spent my time, so I knew that if he decided to report me to the city watch, he could do it, no problem. He had every reason to. Migelo was just starting out then—had enough money to keep the shop running, but not much more. It would've been smarter for him to report me, let the imperials make an example of me. But instead he asked what I was doing there, and so I told him. He gave me the right antidotes and a couple loaves of bread, which was more than either me or Penelo had managed to grab in the past few weeks. It was the first time since my brother had died that I could honestly believe that there were still good people out there, people who will help you if you ask.

"Migelo taught me more about doing the right thing than anyone else ever did," Vaan goes on, his voice reflective now. "I owe him my life, and more than that. I don't know if I'll ever be able to repay him, but at least I can try to live up to what he taught me."

Sensing the boy has reached the end of his tale, Balthier speaks. "That explains some things, certainly. Your refusal to learn etiquette isn't one of them."

"Oh." Vaan frowns. "Yeah, I was kind of hoping you'd get distracted and forget all about the etiquette lesson."

A pause. Balthier regards the boy for several seconds, thinking. "I cannot decide if you are the most frustrating person I've ever had the displeasure of meeting, or . . ."

"Or what?"

_Or if you are far more clever than I ever gave you credit for, _he thinks, suppressing the surge of admiration in his chest. "Forget it. Eat your lunch. We can work on your manners a different day."

A wide grin splits the boy's mouth. He grabs his croissant (while Balthier nobly suppresses the urge to point out the perfectly good fork sitting untouched on the side of the plate) and finishes it off before digging into the rest of his pastries. Balthier, of course, observes perfect manners, eating his scone without dropping even a single crumb.

"So what's next?" Vaan asks a few minutes later. His plate is also free of crumbs, though only because for the past minute and a half he has been piling them up on his plate and shoving them into his mouth.

"Next, we visit the local tavern and consult the bulletin board."

"For hunts?" Vaan asks, sounding surprised.

"For leads," Balthier says. "You will find that many notices are written in code. I'm going to show you how to read those."

"Oh." For the first time since they started running errands, curiosity alights in Vaan's eyes. If Balthier can only find a way to manipulate him into showing some interest in more aristocratic pursuits, perhaps they will make some progress after all.

"Hey, you think we could buy some more of these fruit things and take them with us?"

Or perhaps not.


	10. Truths Concealed in Jealousy

Chapter Ten

Half an hour later, they arrive in one of the many taverns in Trant District. Vaan is shocked to find such a dumpy place amidst all the finery of the upscale city; even the Sandsea at last call isn't this seedy.

"Surprised?" Balthier asks, arching one trimmed eyebrow.

"Yeah, kinda."

A shout breaks through the din. He glances at a wobbly table where five men in varying states of dress play a round of Serpents with a cupful of dice. The man who shouted—the victor, Vaan guesses—rises to his feet, holding a pouch of gil over his head. "That's five to two, scumsuckers! If this keeps up, the lot of you will be rolling in your own shit by nightfall!"

Briefly, he wonders what events ever led to Balthier even discovering this place, let alone visiting it. It was a sty, and Vaan wouldn't have slept in the adjacent alleys no matter how good the scraps were. "So, the bulletin board," he says, hoping to get out of here quickly.

His hopes are dashed when Balthier tells him to find a table while he buys them drinks. Dejected, Vaan sidesteps a pile of vomit (along with a few more . . . questionable substances), and secures them a small table in the corner. Balthier returns a moment later with two mugs of dark ale. "I wouldn't drink that if I were you," he says as he sets one mug in front of Vaan. "Dreadful stuff."

"Why'd you buy it then?"

"House rules," Balthier said, nodding to the tavern wench. "If I hadn't bought anything, she'd have sent security over to . . . inform us of our breach in etiquette."

"This place has security?"

"If by security you mean hired thugs, yes. Now, shall I assume you have no knowledge of how information is encoded in bulletin board messages?"

"Hey, give me a _little _credit," he says, picking through the papers until he finds a line of script he recognizes. "If a message says 'recently acquired,' that usually means whatever they're selling is stolen property, and you can probably get it for cheap if you hint that you know where they got it. Sometimes the constables will make a fake message and use that phrase, but most of the time you'll be able to tell because their spelling is better. And _this _symbol," he says, pointing to a different document, "means that the person offering something is willing to trade in favors or valuables if you don't have gil."

Balthier looks a little taken aback. Vaan merely holds his gaze, waiting for him to begin explaining, and after a moment, Balthier does, pointing out other key phrases, identifying double-speak, defining certain mercantile terms. He also makes sure to explain how to spot other false messages posted by the constables in an attempt to lure thieves. It is the first bit of _real _teaching Balthier has done all day, and Vaan soaks in the information greedily.

"The phrases and keywords will vary from place to place," Balthier says, "but so long as you keep your wits about you, you should be able to navigate those horizons easily enough."

"Great. So are we done here?"

"Not nearly. These are merely the most obvious of the lot. Wait here." He gets up and walks back to the message board. Vaan eyes the untouched mug of ale in front of him, but even he has enough sense to leave it alone.

Something rough and damp clamps around his shoulder, and he's on his feet before he can even process that someone's pawing at him. "Yer pretty fer a boy," the man says as Vaan slips free of his hold. Though it is only three hours past noon, his breath reeks of alcohol, and the scent of pipe-smoke and stale piss lingers around him in a cloud.

"Yeah, and you're not bad-looking for a seeq," Vaan replies.

The man hesitates, unsure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. After a protracted silence, the meaning trickles through the haze of alcohol in his brain, and his puzzled expression sours. "You calling me ugly, pretty boy?"

Vaan glances over his shoulder to find Balthier watching from the board, looking attentive but not alarmed. A stab of irritation pierces Vaan's growing uncertainty as the sky pirate simply crosses his arms, watching the confrontation develop. _Right. Can't expect any help there. _

He turns back to the drunk man, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back slightly, the image of cockiness. One thing he knows from experience is that most fights can be avoided if one appears confident in their ability to win. "I dunno. Last time I saw anyone as ugly as you, all I had to do to scare him off was hold a mirror up to his face."

Laughter cracks through the air, coming from the nearby tables. Though this sort of behavior would cause a scene at most taverns, no one except the handful of drunks in their immediate vicinity seems even slightly perturbed by the budding confrontation.

Well. Vaan has fought men and monsters and a number of lesser gods. If this comes to a fight, he's pretty sure he'll win.

"Just who do you think you are, callin' me _ugly_?"

He casts another look at Balthier. Experience is all well and good. Having reliable backup is better. But the man merely lifts one shoulder and shifts his weight, regarding Vaan as if watching a play. _You're the leading man for this scene, _his expressions seems to say, and suddenly Vaan is anxious. It is one thing to get into a bar brawl which he can reasonably expect to win. It is another thing entirely to do it in front of Balthier, who is probably already constructing a pretentious litany of reproach for when Vaan bashes some guy's nose in. Shame ripples through his bravado, and it must show on his face because the drunk man grabs him by the strap of his vest. "Not looking so cocky now, are ye, boy? Bet ye wish ye was as smart as yer friend there."

"Let go!" he yells, pulling back. The man's grip only tightens, so Vaan resorts to threats. "Let go, or I'll break your arm."

With a jerk, the man pulls him closer, his breath hot against Vaan's face. The smell turns his stomach, and he begins to struggle, still determined not to let this devolve into a fistfight while Balthier is watching, yet desperate now to escape. It would only take one good hit—a punch to the gut and the guy will fold in two and probably puke his guts up.

A _click _sounds behind him, quiet as a key turning in a lock, yet considering its effect, it might as well be as loud as a ringwyrm's roar. "I do believe this has progressed far enough," Balthier says, his voice light, unperturbed. The barrel of his gun presses against the drunkard's doughy midsection, while Balthier's finger rests casually on the trigger. "I advise you release my companion. Now."

The man's fingers go limp. Vaan steps back, raising his fists in the artless defensive pose kids learn growing up on the streets. "I din't mean no harm," the drunk man says, stumbling back. Slowly, Balthier lowers his gun, grabbing Vaan by the elbow and half-leading, half-dragging him out of the bar.

They barely make it outside before Balthier rounds on him. "What in the seven hells was _that_?"

"I was trying to avoid a fight! That's what _that_ was."

"A fight you seemed all too happy to initiate!"

"_He _grabbed _me_!"

"Could you not have politely informed him you weren't interested?"

Vaan pauses. Blinks. Considers. He expected chilly disdain or mocking disapproval, not the blazing inferno in Balthier's eyes. Vaan has seen cracks in Balthier's masks, heard the edge of frustration or regret in his voice, learned the difference between affected emotion and the real thing, but he has _never _seen the mask fall away completely. Even when facing down Cid, Balthier's anger was eerily tranquil—almost as if he could not be bothered to feel anything more than contempt for the madman who sired him. Yet now, _now _his rage burns like a torch, and Vaan cannot even tell who it is directed at. The drunk man, for his actions? Vaan, for his part in it? Or Balthier himself, for even caring enough to be angry?

"Go back to the _Strahl,_" Balthier says at last, releasing his elbow. "I've no further use for you until our mission tonight."

Vaan wavers between shock and indignation for a second too long, and both emotions lose out to the sharp slap of hurt. _No further use. _As if he's nothing more than an errand boy, valuable only in terms of how efficiently he can obey orders, an easy scapegoat when things go wrong. _No further use, _like he's a bent screwdriver or a cracked fuel rod. _No further use . . . _

He spins on his heel and sprints for the aerodome, cursing the dry air for making his eyes water.

* * *

The little thief's footfalls echo among the cobblestones, a concussive _tap-tap-tap _to add to the noise of drunks and fools seeping through the tavern walls. Alone on the narrow street with the scent of refuse clogging the air, Balthier struggles to calm the tempest of rage inside him. Which would be easier if he could figure out whose feet to lay the blame at. Three possibilities—one simple, one difficult, and one bitter—flicker through his mind, and he takes a moment, amidst the garbage-strewn side-street, to contemplate each.

The simplest option—the drunkard—is certainly a deserving target. Though coarse behavior is only to be expected at such a lowbrow tavern, the man ought to have backed off when it became apparent the little thief had no interest in him, and in fact appeared to regard him with abhorrence. But after what probably amounted to a pitcher of ale—if the noxious stuff they serve in the _Eye and Eyepatch _even qualifies as such—the fool lacked the necessary insight to make sensible decisions, and though he is certainly to blame for overindulging himself, Balthier has done a number of foolish things while blackout drunk, and flirting with an uncooperative young man is not his worst offense.

The more difficult option is to blame Vaan, who ought to know better than to talk back to someone twice as broad around the shoulders as himself. However, the viability of that option is also questionable, as the little thief _was _indeed trying to resolve the confrontation nonviolently. Admirable, he supposes, though not the course of action Balthier would have taken (He would have rested one hand meaningfully on his gun, making some quip about the effects of lead ripping through skin and muscle). Vaan is young yet, and lacks the social awareness to read other people. Again, not entirely blameless, but not deserving of the brunt of Balthier's anger.

Which leaves only the bitter third option: that Balthier himself is to blame for placing Vaan in a situation where he might need to defend himself without first making it clear how he was to go about doing so. It is straightforward enough out in the wilderness: if a monster attacks, you stick it with a sword. Similarly, if you find yourself fighting a complement of imperial soldiers as you escort a Dalmascan princess across the countryside, you show no mercy. This situation was more ambiguous, and for once, Vaan had seen the wisdom in thinking about consequences before striking, which would be quite laudable if it hadn't also been entirely counterproductive.

Balthier had set about today's errands with the intention of providing some guidance to the clever thief he met two years ago. Instead he banished the boy to the _Strahl, _shouting at him as if he were a dog that had pissed on the bed, and he can hardly begin to fathom what he will say to the boy upon his return.


	11. The Truth in a Name

Chapter Eleven

Vaan returns to the aerodome, hurt and angry and alone. The clerks behind the desks eye him warily, but no one stops him as he stalks into the private hangar where the _Strahl _is docked. People part ways for him, but even so, he slips his fingers into the coin-pouches of several distracted noblemen and relieve them of their gil. Stealing was once his only means of survival, the only act which offered him some semblance of power, however small. A profitable grab was more thrilling than finding half a loaf of bread on someone's windowsill, and though he no longer needs the money, the thirty or so coins he grabs soothe his stinging pride.

Stepping into the private hangar, Vaan nearly trips over a stack of packages wrapped in paper. Scowling, he half-considers kicking it over before realizing these are the books Balthier had delivered to the airship.

He takes a breath, then admits to himself that knocking them over would be childish. Instead, he picks them up and carries them to the _Strahl's _entry hatch, more weary than he's been since . . . well, since before he found out Balthier and Fran still lived.

The moogles tasked with checking the engines are still in residence, but they pay him little mind as he boards and carries the books off to the galley. He needs a distraction, and since Balthier has decided to banish him to the ship (like a child ordered to stand in the corner), he figures he may as well get started on those stupid books. Mostly because he wants Balthier to come back and see how responsible and diligent he can be, which will only highlight how irrational the sky pirate is when he loses his temper.

Still, Vaan is not much inclined to academia, so he picks the thinnest book first, discarding it when he finds it full of poetic phrases and convoluted terms that remind him entirely too much of the man he's trying not to think about. However, the next tome he opens is even worse, as is the third. It isn't until he has neared the bottom of the pile that he finds something that won't make him grind his teeth.

_My name is Kvothe, _it began, _pronounced nearly the same as "Quothe." Names are important as they tell you a great deal about a person. I've had more names than anyone has a right to. _

_ The Adem call me Maedre. Which, depending on how it's pronounced, can mean "The Flame," "The Thunder," or "The Broken Tree."_

_ "The Flame" is obvious if you've ever seen me. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. I keep it short but it's unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire._

_ "The Thunder" I attribute to a strong baritone and a great deal of stage training at an early age._

_ I've never thought of "The Broken Tree" as very significant. Although in retrospect I suppose it could be considered at least partially prophetic. _

Vaan suspects the narrator has a bit of an ego, but though the sentences sound kind of poetic, the words they are built from are elegantly straightforward. It's a far cry from the dry, page-long paragraphs of the other tomes, so he sits back and reads, only occasionally having to sound out words. Compared to Balthier, he probably seems illiterate, but he reads almost as well as Penelo, and twice as well as most street urchins.

Time slips by. Vaan takes a break every fifteen minutes or so, getting snacks or walking around a bit. It's not that he doesn't _get _why people read books. They're full of information, and some of them are probably interesting. But generally they require greater focus than he readily commits to, so progress is slow.

He makes it through about a hundred pages by the time he hears the staccato tap of footsteps in the ship's main corridor. A moment later, Fran passes in front of the doorway and peers in. "Balthier is not with you," she notes. An implied question—_Where has he gone?_—hangs in the air.

Vaan shrugs. "We had a fight."

"Oh?" Fran tilts her head to one side, curiosity glimmering in her wine-red eyes. "Would you care to elaborate?"

To his surprise, he does, first going into the details about what happened at the tavern, then complaining about the rest of the day. After about a minute, Fran pours herself a glass of rum and takes a seat across from him. She's a good listener (much better than Balthier), and by the time Vaan finishes, he's surprised to find that he's not angry anymore. "Sorry," he says, looking down. "It's just . . . When I found out that he—that you were both alive, I thought things would be different. That he'd treat me less like some dumb kid and more like . . ."

"An equal?" Fran suggests.

"Yeah."

She nods. "He has difficulty regarding anyone as his equal. Part of it, I think, is his upbringing. This city is rife with humes who define themselves by their social position. It functions because everyone knows their place and how to act when individuals of different ranks are present."

"He definitely _acts_ like he's better than everyone else," Vaan mutters, scowling. "The worst thing is that even though he treats people like garbage, they still go out of their way to give him whatever he wants."

A rare smile touches Fran's face. "It may appear that way, but it has not always been so. There was a time, before I found him, when the only thing he had was the _Strahl. _A time when he had no one to rely on, no home to go back to. He was like me, cut away forever from his past."

Vaan winces, remembering how harsh the viera of Fran's village were, how eager they were to shun one of their own, but Fran pays him no attention. She seems reflective.

"Freedom is most difficult to accept in the time immediately after you acquire it," she goes on, a wistful note to her voice. "You are like a leaf cast into the sky, at the mercy of the ever-changing wind. Most often, you will land in the mud or get trampled underfoot when you land. But over time, you learn to land in places where you are sheltered from those who would hurt you." Her smile slides away. "This city is no place for a leaf torn from its branch. Being here makes him unhappy. He will be less temperamental once we are gone."

Vaan looks down. "I hope you're right about that."

The viera rises from his chair, but as she does, she pauses, eyes flicking to the stack of books at the foot of the table. With an unreadable expression, she plucks the book Vaan was reading from the top of the stack, her ears twitching slightly. "He gave you this?"

"It was one of the books he bought at that shop I mentioned. Why?"

"It is an old favorite of his. I think he keeps it to remind himself of the person he wishes he could be. Or perhaps the person he does not wish to be."

Vaan opens his mouth to ask what she means by that, but by the time he can get a word out, she is already gone, probably to get ready for their infiltration of the Draklor Laboratory tonight. He frowns, sighs, and reopens the book, waiting for Balthier to return.

* * *

From his perch atop an adjacent building, Balthier watches the windows of the Draklor Laboratory. They are few and far between, revealing only insignificant hallways. Draklor was designed with security in mind, and though the war is over, though a good man stands as emperor of Archadia now, the building is as much of an enigma as ever.

Reconnaissance. One of many skills which Balthier has painstakingly developed in the years since he fled Archades. After so much practice, it should be routine. Easy.

With Draklor, it is different. Reconnaissance requires one to see things as they are, not as how they should be. It requires a clear mind, a keen eye, and a certain emotional detachment. But no matter how hard he tries, he cannot loosen the coil of hatred in his stomach. A part of him wants to burn the whole place to the ground, never mind that it is made of brick and metal and things that don't burn.

He has a set of blueprints for the building which he stole during their last trip inside, over a year ago now. From that same trip, he has a working knowledge of how the bulkhead controls are arranged, as well as how to circumvent them. With only three in their party now, he'll have to be more careful. A few Vanishga spells will help, though it's unlikely they will be able to slip past security unnoticed.

The wind stirs the loose cloth of his sleeves. Night has fallen. Fran will be expecting him back, and Vaan . . . Well, the boy will probably be glad for the delay after this afternoon. Still, Balthier is not one to leave things to chance if he can help it. A little risk is exciting; too much is lethal. Lowering his binoculars, he casts Float on himself, reducing his weight to a tiny fraction of its normal amount. He also fastens his gun—the heaviest piece of equipment he has—to a strap on the inside of his boot, barrel pointing toward the ground. It will serve as an anchor to keep his feet pointing downward. Then, as calmly as if taking the first step down a flight of stairs, he steps off the edge of the building.

With his reduced weight, he falls slowly, reaching terminal velocity in barely a quarter of the time he otherwise would. It is not quite enough for a safe landing, so when he nears the ground, he casts an Aero spell, calling the wind to further reduce his speed. He lands on his feet, returns his gun to the holster at his waist, and heads back toward the _Strahl. _

He does not notice the figure watching him from the laboratory's fifth-floor window, nor does it occur to him that even in the deepening twilight, it is not so dark that he cannot be recognized. He simply makes his way back to the aerodome to relay the results of his reconnaissance to the others.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_

_The book referenced throughout this chapter (and possibly future chapters) is actually a real book by Patrick Rothfuss. The book is titled _The Name of the Wind, _and is the first book in _The Kingkiller Chronicles, _of which there are currently two main books and one spin-off novella. If you haven't had a chance to read_ The Name of the Wind_, I highly recommend it. The prose is beautiful, the characters engaging, and the plot uses a lot of common fantasy tropes in such a way that constantly plays with your expectations. It's one of my favorite books, and certainly the most poetic book I've ever read. _

_On another note, I think this fic might be longer than I had originally planned. Which is . . . good, I guess? Hopefully I can still keep it relatively contained (100K or less), but whether I am able to do that depends on a number of factors, such as whether I will ever be able to learn how to keep things brief and stop getting distracted by every subplot that flits through my mind. Either way, I hope you all are enjoying the story thus far, and big thanks to everyone who's reviewed. Every word you write is a balm to my soul._


	12. Despite All the Lies

Chapter Twelve

"I thought you said you were going to be back at dusk," Vaan says, crossing his arms as Balthier sweeps into the galley.

"If I'd known you would be as tetchy as a spurned lover, I'd have stayed out longer."

The little thief flushes, sinking into his seat as if to make himself disappear. From the other side of the table, Fran looks at him evenly, one ear twitching in disapproval. Balthier drops into the seat opposite of her, and Vaan, face still red with embarrassment, slides over to give him room.

"I was doing a bit of reconnaissance," he says, laying out the blueprints he filched during their previous visit. "Draklor Laboratory is as impenetrable as ever—which is to say it will be difficult to break in, but not impossible. We will be entering on the forty-third floor and progressing up to the fifty-seventh."

"Why there?" Vaan asks.

"The fifty-seventh floor contains comprehensive records of the laboratory's projects. We'll find what we're looking for there." He doesn't say that the top floor—the floor where his father performed his most clandestine experiments—will likely contain any information deemed too sensitive for the common researchers. But if he knows anything about Draklor (and he does), he will find more than enough evidence in the storerooms to validate his suspicions.

He does not consider the possibility that the same records could also disprove those suspicions. He doesn't have enough faith in humanity to believe anyone could purge Draklor of its corruption.

"So how are we going to get to the forty-third floor?" Vaan asks. "Did you bribe one of the sky-taxi drivers like last time?"

"No need. Our method of entry removes any need for outside assistance."

Vaan frowns, puzzled. Fran gives him a knowing look. Neither of them argue, so Balthier lays out the plan, mapping out their route. The laboratory is designed to confuse those unfamiliar with the systems of bulkheads and security codes. Fortunately, the three of them have experience from their last visit, which makes their task considerably easier.

"We will exit the same way we enter—through a window—and return immediately to the _Strahl. _If we're spotted by the guards, they will try to head us off there—anyone fleeing Archades would either have to do so on foot, which I would rather avoid, or by airship."

"So we'll have to move fast," Vaan says, nodding.

"And our backup plan?" Fran asks. Not because she doesn't know the answer (her cleverness may, admittedly, outstrip his own), but because _Vaan _doesn't, and this is the best way to solve that without inciting one of his childish arguments.

"If we find that the guards have beaten us to the aerodome, we regroup elsewhere. Vaan, do you think you can find that cafe we visited earlier today?"

Misty gray eyes flicker to his face. "Yeah."

"Good. If the plan goes sour, we'll rendezvous there between second and third bell tomorrow afternoon, assuming we get separated. Fran will meet us outside the weapons shop in Nilbasse between third and fourth bell." He pauses just long enough to allow any objections to be voiced, then continues. "If all goes well, however, we return immediately to the aerodome and depart for our next destination."

"And where's that?" Vaan asks.

"I'll let you know when I decide." Perhaps Balfonheim, he thinks. One can always find rumors of treasure in a city of sky pirates. Besides, Balfonheim is as different from Archades as the Estersand is from the Salikawood, and he will want a change of scenery after their mission here is done with.

"Is that all, then?" Fran asks as Balthier rises from his seat.

"I should think that we'll be able to improvise the rest once we're inside. Do take care not to cause a clamor," he says to Vaan. "It wouldn't do to get caught before we find the records room."

The little thief scowls but offers no retort. With a confident smile, Balthier leads them off the ship and into the city.

* * *

"You want us to _what_?"

"You heard me," Balthier says. The three of them stand atop a tall building adjacent to Draklor Laboratory, their clothes flapping in the wind, and Vaan cannot help but think insanity must run in the family, because madness is the only reason Balthier could think it's a good idea for them to jump off a building. "You'll be _fine_," the man says, rolling his eyes. "Unless of course you've forgotten how to perform even a basic Aero spell."

He bristles. "Of course not. But maybe _you've _forgotten how gravity works."

"It is quite safe," Fran interrupts. "We learned the technique from an acquaintance in Balfonheim. It has already served us well."

He glances at the viera, then back at Balthier, torn. He's never sure what to think when it comes to the man, and the thought of trusting him, _really _trusting him, is more frightening than he can put into words. But if there is one thing Vaan knows with certainty, it is that he _does_ trust Fran. He trusts her as much as he trusts Penelo.

It is, he admits, a strange revelation to have as he contemplates jumping off a building. He turns to Balthier. "Fine. But you first."

"Certainly." Balthier traces the matrix for a Float spell in the air in front of him, the lines crisp, precise. He may not be particularly good at magick while intoxicated, but he is far from unskilled. Moments later, Vaan feels a subtle change within himself—a feeling of lightness, as if his feet are no longer supporting the weight of his body. The spell does the same for each of his companions, and Balthier steps onto the ledge, utterly at ease as he stands above the city, ready to fall. He points. "Remember, we're aiming for that window."

"I know," he says (a touch defensively, because could Balthier _be_ any more condescending?)

Even though he has been reassured, his stomach jumps as the man he has believed dead for an entire year steps off the roof and begins to fall. Only seconds pass before he casts an Aero spell, propelling himself sideways through the air, toward the window he pointed out moments ago. He lands lightly on the ledge by the pane of glass, and Vaan can _feel _him smirking as he beckons.

_This, _Vaan thinks, stepping up to the edge, _may be the stupidest thing I've ever done. _He takes a deep breath, conscious of the sense of weightlessness caused by Balthier's Float spell. Even if he misses the window, he won't hit the ground all _that _hard. Probably.

He exhales sharply, holding the matrix for an Aero spell in his mind, and steps off the ledge.

Panic swoops through his stomach, a bird beating at the bars of its cage. Without solid ground underfoot, he flails, one of his arms slamming against the side of the building as he drops. The impact knocks him further away from the one solid surface within reach.

He remembers that night at the palace, the night Balthier tossed him off the parapet. He remembers a warm hand closing around his wrist, a disdainful scowl, the touch of copper-colored eyes, but before that, he remembers the sickening twist of fear as he plummeted toward the ground with nothing to grasp onto.

A gale slams into him. He lurches to the side, bereft, and then the wind gentles, lifting instead of pushing. As he spins in midair, he sees Balthier standing by the window, hand outstretched, sleeves flapping noisily. Vaan doesn't think. He reaches out, grabbing the sky pirate's hand, and Balthier hauls him onto the ledge so they are both pressed against the window, sheltered from the wind.

Balthier arches an eyebrow. "Forget how to cast an Aero spell, eh?"

Vaan opens his mouth and finds he has nothing to say. The part of his mind not completely overtaken by shock informs him that he's holding Balthier's hand like a frightened child, and he can't let go (not again, never letting him go again) because they are forty-three floors up, standing on a ledge by a window, and his knees are shaking so badly that without Balthier's support, he will fall.

"There's not enough room on this ledge for three," Balthier says. "If you will release my hand, I'll deal with the window."

"I could have died." The words are meant to sound angry. Instead they sound hollow.

"You didn't."

"I could have. You . . . you . . ."

"I wouldn't have let you fall."

"_Balthier_."

The man _looks_ at him, looks as if he is the only other person in the world, and Vaan goes silent. Gently, Balthier squeezes his hand. "I wouldn't have let you fall," he says, softly now. And despite all the lies that have passed between them, Vaan believes him enough to let go while Balthier pulls a narrow metal tool from his belt and slides it under the window frame to unlatch it from the inside. Then, carefully, he slides the window open. "We stay quiet from here on. Fran will follow once we're clear of the ledge."

They slip inside, followed a moment later by Fran, who needs no help to land where she wills. As soon as she arrives, Balthier traces a Vanishga spell with his fingertips. It won't conceal them completely—the air will warp slightly where they stand, like a desert mirage—but it will make them less conspicuous.

"Stay close," Balthier says as he fades out. "Listen for my footsteps."

Vaan nods, realizes he's invisible, then says, "Got it."

They start walking. It quickly becomes apparent that Balthier's advice to listen for his footsteps is flawed—sky pirate that he is, he walks so softly that only Fran could possibly hear him. Vaan has to watch for the odd bending of the light, the pale, translucent shadow the man casts when they pass near a lamp. It is like the shadow cast by a bead of water catching the light—insubstantial and mesmerizing.

With his attention diverted, he doesn't hear the guards until they're nearly upon him. An instant later, he feels the brush of fabric, the pressure of a hand around his arm, as Balthier pushes him to the side of the corridor, in the shadowy patch between lamps. At the intersection ahead, a pair of soldiers turn toward them, their armor jingling. He holds his breath, hand automatically going to the sword at his hip. He is never without a weapon now.

Balthier's fingers tighten around his arm, though whether it is meant to be a reassurance or a warning, Vaan can't decide. His heartbeat thrums in his neck. The sky pirate's rings dig into his skin. A warning, then.

The soldiers pass without incident, blind to the intruders they don't expect to see. After a long moment, Balthier releases his arm, his fingers leaving bands of warmth on his skin. Vaan breathes shallowly until they are out of sight of the guards. It has been a long time since he's done something this dangerous. Since the battle for Rabanastre. As thrilling as those days were, he'd nearly forgotten the terror that accompanied them. The excitement outweighs that fear, but only just.

They make it to the elevator without incident. Balthier types a code into the number pad beside the lift, and a few moments later, the doors part to admit them. It's only when the doors close again that Fran—so silent that he has forgotten her presence—speaks. "I expected this place to be more securely guarded since our last break-in."

"As did I," Balthier says, a strange note in his voice. Though he is still invisible, Vaan can imagine the calculating glint in his eyes, the subtle rise of his eyebrows. "Considering the number of soldiers I've seen in the city, I'd have expected more than one close encounter by now."

"You think it's a trap?" He doesn't know why he frames it as a question. It's always a trap.

"Only one way to find out," Balthier says. The doors glide open.

They are greeted by an empty room.


	13. Veiled Truths

Chapter Thirteen

One does not survive as a sky pirate without developing a keen sense of danger. Balthier has learned when to flee, when to fight, and when to talk his way out of a bad situation, and though he tries not to think about it, these are things he learned not as a criminal and fugitive, but as a youth trapped in a household dominated by a madman who occasionally used his children as test subjects.

So he does not ignore the prickle on the back of his neck, nor does he allow himself to relax when their elevator doors open in an empty room. Instead, he thrusts his arm out, blocking the doorway, and speaks. "Fran."

"Two traps, embedded in the floor tiles in front of the lift," she says, understanding. "One is meant to Silence us; the other is rigged to explode. There's another at the mouth of the corridor to our left, most likely to immobilize us should we manage to circumvent the first two."

"Can you disable them?"

"It will take time," she says, brushing past him before crouching beside the first two traps.

He considers the layout. The traps in front of the elevator are not meant to kill them—he's almost certain of that. With all the sensitive equipment at Draklor, security would be wary of setting off powerful explosives. More likely, the exploding trap is meant as an alarm for the guards, who—if his suspicions are correct—will come running in through the passage to their right, herding them toward the third trap, which will immobilize them. A clever setup. Still, it is not the traps which worry him.

"Someone knows we're here," Vaan says, echoing his thoughts.

"So it would seem." _We'll have to disable all three traps and continue down the left corridor. _His eyebrows pinch together. That goes against the route he planned, but heading right means running into the guard patrol. _Damn. We'll have to loop around, switch the bulkheads. But that will draw nearly as much attention as setting off the traps. _

"Fran, hold on a second," the little thief says. Balthier looks at him sharply, but since they're still affected by his Vanish spell, his glance goes unnoticed.

"What is it?"

"Is there any way you can reactivate those traps after we get by?"

A pause as Fran considers. "It could be done, yes."

_What are you thinking? _Balthier wonders, curious. "If you're proposing we leave one of our only escape routes rigged to explode, I advise you reconsider."

"No, think about it for a second. Whoever left these traps obviously expects us to be here—they wouldn't have set them otherwise. They also expect us to go left and get stuck in that last trap, which probably means there's something else waiting for us if we go right."

"Yes. Guards, most likely."

The air where Vaan stands warps slightly. A nod. "Yeah. Which means that _that's _where we need to go, right? I mean, that's what your maps said anyway. But since there are going to be soldiers _there_, we need a way to draw their attention away from whatever they're guarding. So once we're past the trap, we reset it and set it off from a distance so they _think _we fell for it, and while they're trying to figure out where we are, we sneak past them."

_Clever, clever boy, _he thinks, pride sparking in his chest. "Right. We do it your way."

Moments later, Fran finishes disabling the traps, allowing them to pass. Once they're out of the way, she resets both, bringing them alive with a surge of magick. "Shall I disable the other trap?"

"No. Chances are they'll assume we triggered it and freed ourselves, which means they might snare themselves before they realize it never went off. Now then, as for setting it off . . ." He slides his gun out of its holster, pointing it in the general direction of the trap. One of the downsides to being invisible is that it makes it nearly impossible to aim. But he learned how to shoot before he turned twelve, and his skills have only improved with time. He pulls the trigger, and the bullet hits the trap dead-center, setting it off. As expected, the explosion is barely strong enough to shatter the tiles at the epicenter of the trap. Definitely meant as an alarm, rather than a weapon.

Moments later, the jangling footfalls of men in armor fill the corridor. Still invisible, Balthier presses himself against the wall as they flood into the room, then eases his way around the corner. With luck, this lot won't notice the half-there shadows of their passing. A clamor rises behind them as the soldiers are snared in the immobilization trap, as anticipated.

"Well done, Vaan," he murmurs, hurrying down the passage. He hears a grunt of acknowledgment, then turns at the next intersection. The elevator at the end of this hallway will take them to the fifty-seventh floor, where the records room resides, and once they're finished there, they will escape through the nearest window.

A grating noise scrapes against his eardrums. He spins on his heel to see the bulkhead behind them close. _What? _

A voice issues forth from the building's speaker system, tinny and distorted. "So good of you to come. We've been expecting you for some time."

He cannot place the voice, but he knows the rhythm, the tone. It has been a long time since he last visited Archades, longer still since he lived here, but the voice is too familiar to belong to a casual acquaintance. One of his father's underlings, perhaps? Most researchers who make it to Draklor never leave, though whether they last until old age or "disappear" in an "unfortunate accident" varies. It's possible. His father spent hours in conference with other researchers, discussing projects, and Balthier met a number of them. But who? And how had they known he would be here tonight?

"The other door!" Vaan yells. Loud footsteps slam against the tile as the bulkhead on the other end of the passage closes, trapping them. The little thief swears, banging his fists against the metal. The Vanishga spell is starting to fade, not that it matters. In minutes, they will appear completely corporeal. By then, they will likely also be in chains.

Balthier lifts his head toward the speakers. "Who are you?"

"As haughty as ever, it seems," the voice says. "Though I suppose you have good reason to be haughty. It's difficult enough to break into Draklor even when you aren't expected there. Excellent job circumventing the first set of traps, by the way. It seems you _do _live up to your reputation."

A hissing noise fills the corridor. His hand goes automatically toward his gun, but before he can pinpoint the source of the sound, a cloyingly sweet scent fills his nostrils, and beneath that, a sour stench like rancid milk. _I know that smell, _he thinks, mind hazy. He's encountered enough Marlboros in his travels to recognize their breath. "Don't breathe it in," he calls hoarsely, knowing it's probably already too late. "They're trying to knock us out."

He hears a thud. Fran, now fully visible, lies on the floor, having already succumbed to the gas. Vaan is faring better, a handkerchief pressed over his mouth and nose, but his eyes water as he meets Balthier's gaze.

Sluggishly, every step an effort, Balthier drags himself toward the nearest window and rams the butt of his gun against the glass. It's a fruitless effort—the gas is a tranquilizer, and already his muscles are becoming paralyzed. He tries again, and this attempt is even more pitiful. He runs his fingertips across the windowsill, looking for a latch. There isn't one. _Of course not, _he thinks, black dots swarming his vision. _This is a trap. And we walked right into it._

* * *

The gas would almost smell pleasant except for the trace of rot beneath the sweetness. Vaan gags, head swimming, and presses a handkerchief against his mouth. It's one of Balthier's; he can't recall where he found it or when he started carrying it. He can't recall much of anything right now, actually, with the putrid-sweet gas scattering his concentration.

Things he does remember: walking in the Golmore Jungle, dappled light filtering through the canopy like beads of molten gold; a writhing mass of vines and leaves with a gaping mouth full of teeth; a scent like rosewater over dead things; Fran kneeling over him, tracing a web of light in the air to draw out the toxins; Balthier rolling his eyes and making a disparaging comment about Vaan's ignorance (again).

Remembering, Vaan traces the pattern for an Esuna spell on the floor, pouring energy into it. It activates with a pulse of light, cleansing the toxins from his body. His mind clears. The trembling in his hands abates. He drags himself over to where Balthier collapsed, but by the time he gets there, his mind is already starting to fog again. He casts another Esuna spell on himself, shaking the sky pirate by the shoulder. "C'mon. We have to get out of here."

Balthier doesn't stir. Dismay trickles through his mind. Even with constant healing spells, they will suffocate if their captors don't open the bulkheads soon. There's always the window, but with Balthier and Fran unconscious, that escape route would be suicide. At the same time, Vaan is not so arrogant that he thinks he can take on the dozens of guards that are no doubt waiting for them on the other sides of the bulkheads.

There is only one option. It sickens him to even consider it. His greatest regret is fleeing on the _Strahl _while Balthier played the hero on the _Bahamut_. For a year, that shame churned away in his stomach, eating away at him. He had left Balthier and Fran behind, and sure, they'd manipulated him into doing it, but that didn't change the fact that he'd abandoned them. How could he even consider leaving them behind again?

_There's no other way, _he thinks, coughing. Even with another Esuna spell, he's beginning to feel the effects of oxygen deprivation. There is no more time to think, no more time to agonize over what needs to be done, so he slides Balthier's gun out of its holster, aims it toward the window, and fires. The glass doesn't shatter as expected, only cracks. Desperately, he loads another shot, fires again. Hundreds of tiny fissures spread out across the glass, as fine as spider silk.

On either side of the hallway, the bulkheads begin to slide open, revealing dozens of soldiers in full armor. Each has a mechanical apparatus in place of their usual helmet which hisses in sync with their breathing, and as soon as the doors open wide enough, they begin shoving their way through. "Lay down your weapons!" commands the man at the front.

Vaan loads another shot, sick and dizzy. When this one strikes the window, the glass shatters, and blessed clean air breezes in through the opening. He scrambles to his feet—when did he fall?—and leaps onto the windowsill, the walls spinning around him. Armored hands close around his forearms, but he slams his foot into the breathing apparatus of the man grabbing at him. The soldier makes a choked noise, fingers unfurling.

He punches the glass to make an opening; the shards leave deep gashes in his arms. And then, sick with guilt and dangerous toxins, he throws himself out the window.


	14. The Word of a Sky Pirate

Chapter Fourteen

Vaan plummets, bits of glass sparkling around his body as the ground rushes up to meet him. In the dark, the surrounding buildings darken to shades of blue and gray, except for the occasional flash of soft light glimpsed through Draklor's windows as he careens through the air.

_ I'm going to die. _It's not the first time that thought has entered his mind, nor is it the first time he has rebelled against it. He has survived hunger, cold, sickness, and more violence than anyone has a right to, all because of his refusal to lay down and die. So as the hard kick of adrenaline gives way to determination, he calls to mind the pattern for a Float spell, drawing upon the reserve of energy inside him. All living things draw in a bit of Mist in their day-to-day lives, and after so many months working with magick, the magick comes easily to him. As soon as the spell matrix solidifies in his mind, a sense of weightlessness envelops him, and his rapid descent slows. He is still falling—falling faster than he would like—but as the wind catches his now-lighter body, his velocity goes from lethal to merely dangerous.

In the last few seconds of his impromptu drop, he performs an Aero spell, creating a cushion of air beneath him to act as a buffer against the hard cobblestones. Even so, he lands badly, and the first thing that registers is a splintering pain in his legs. The first coherent thought that passes through his mind (aside from a litany of swearwords) is that he wishes Penelo were here. She always was better at magick than him. Not only could she heal his injuries, but she probably would have prevented those injuries in the first place.

She is not here, so he is alone with the stabbing agony in his shins, alone with blood oozing from a dozen different cuts. He is alone while Balthier and Fran remained trapped in a tower of steel that touches the sky, and the idea of history repeating itself simmers bitterly in the back of his mind.

Shouts ring through the night, accompanied by the scrape of metal on metal. Though none of the guards inside Draklor followed him out the window, they've clearly decided to call in reinforcements. Vaan braces one hand against the cobblestones, trying to stand. Pain makes his vision swim. It is all he can do to stagger into the nearest alleyway, and by then he is sick with the aftereffects of the Marlboro gas, sick and dizzy and too disoriented to walk.

_Have to get away, _he thinks, blood oozing from his knees. He staggers several paces, falls, gets up again. All he has to do is keep moving. It should be easy; he has spent most of his life running.

Another step. He feels a little better now. His whole body hurts, but the nausea is fading. Clean air and plenty of Esuna spells—a sure remedy for Marlboro gas. He can't risk any magick here—no matter how contained the spell, he won't be able to conceal the glow from his pursuers—so clean air will have to do.

Another step. Pain is nothing new to him. Long ago, he lost count of how many beatings he'd endured. It is a well-known fact among street urchins that you either learn to survive a few beatings or you don't survive at all.

Another step. He is quite sure at least one of the bones in his left leg is cracked. He has to . . . he has to . . . He can't remember.

Another step. This time, when he falls, he retches. The taste of decay coats his tongue, but once he's done, his head is clearer. Somewhere behind him, men in suits of armor scurry about, coordinating a search effort. Ironically, the armor which marks them as guards actually hampers their ability to perceive danger. With only a narrow slit to see through, Imperial soldiers have little peripheral vision and therefore have a much more difficult time spotting their quarry. It's a flaw Vaan has been taking advantage of since the Archadians first invaded Rabanastre.

He's in too much pain to walk anymore, so he crawls, dragging his body across the cold stones, deeper into the alleyway. Several stray dogs growl as he encroaches on their territory, but he wards them off with a few jabs of his elbow. Stray dogs are like stray children—they run away when kicked, because staying means more pain.

Elsewhere, he can heard tinny voices shouting, but the noise seems distant. He's fading out now, so he curls up beside a worn-out stack of crates and covers himself with a mud-encrusted blanket which the dogs must have been using as a bed. Within moments, darkness folds around him.

* * *

His dreams come like shards of glass, too fragmented to piece together, and like glass, their edges are sharp enough to cut.

* * *

Hours later, Vaan is woken by a snuffling noise near his head. It jolts him out of unconsciousness so quickly that his first instinct is to lash out like a wild animal. When his fist hits something soft, a canine yowl echoes against the walls, followed by the scratch and scrape of claws on cobblestones.

For a moment, he is caught between disjointed nightmares and lucidity. He has slept in more alleys than he can count, shared territory with stray animals of all varieties (including a chocobo, once). So, the first time he wakes, he thinks he is in an alleyway in Rabanastre, badly beaten by whoever caught him stealing this time, and he closes his eyes, accustomed to the myriad of cuts and bruises.

* * *

He must fall asleep again, because the next time his eyes open, the sun is overhead, peering into the alley.

The quality of the light is what rouses him. By this hour of day in Rabanastre, the sun is a hateful, glaring circle in the sky, baking the city under its radiant heat. Midday in a desert country is never so breezy, the light never so weak, and the only place in Rabanastre where the air is this damp and cool is Lowtown.

Clarity is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, he remembers now that he's in Archades, a far more temperate place than Rabanastre. On the other, he remembers last night, remembers abandoning Balthier and Fran in Draklor.

Cautiously, he sits up. His body rings with so many different pains that he doesn't know which to address first. The splintering pain in his legs? The stinging lacerations left by the glass fragments of the window he jumped out of? The deep, pulsing ache of his bruises?

No. Pain is secondary. First, he needs to ascertain how much danger he's still in. Vaan crawls to the mouth of the alley and peeks out. Draklor Laboratory casts a long shadow, even this close to midday, but he is farther from the distinct structure than he thought. He has only dim recollections of last night's escape. Everything after he leapt from the window is scattered, fragmented.

He sees no soldiers nearby. A good sign, but that doesn't mean they're not looking for him. By now, his description will have circulated throughout the city. Archadians value information so highly that it wouldn't surprise him to hear that news of their failed break-in has made its way back to Dalmasca already.

Regardless, he doesn't appear to be in any immediate peril; he retreats into the alley, takes stock of his injuries. His legs hurt the worst—definitely fractured—but after a night amidst piles of trash, the cuts on his arms worry him the most. He pulls a fresh handkerchief from his pocket, douses it with a bit of water from the pouch he always carries, and dabs at the lacerations, wiping away dirt and scabs until the bleeding starts anew. Some will need stitches, but for that, he will need a needle and thread, both of which he left on the _Strahl. _For now, he casts a few Cure spells, sealing the cuts as best as he can with his fingertips while the magick works.

The spells deplete the reservoir of energy inside him. Practiced as he is, the fact remains that there is little free-floating Mist here, where the population is so dense. It will be days before he can gather enough of it to work any powerful spells.

Knowing he cannot afford to be recognized, he pulls last night's ratty blanket over his head like a cloak, tying it at the front with a piece of string he finds on the ground nearby. Evidently, Archades has fewer street urchins than Rabanastre. If there were more homeless kids, he wouldn't find so much valuable trash in this one alley. That, or the people of Archades are supremely wasteful. Probably both, now that he thinks about it.

Completing his beggar's ensemble is a narrow pipe the length of his arm—long enough to use as a cane, if he hunches over (and he does need a cane, at least until he can find someone to heal his legs). Vaan stands, shuddering in pain, and makes his way further into the alley, keeping to the shadowed side-streets, where he is less likely to be seen. He is glad now that Balthier made a backup plan in the event of their separation. For obvious reasons, it's unsafe to return to the _Strahl_, so he will meet Balthier outside the cafe they visited yesterday, and then they can go find Fran over in Nilbasse.

It takes him nearly an hour to reach Trant District, and another fifteen minutes to locate the commercial sector where the cafe sits. For the first time in over twelve hours, hunger stirs in Vaan's stomach, but he ignores it. Only one day removed from his last trip to the cafe, he might be recognized, and in his beggar's garb, the staff might call the city watch regardless. Instead, he finds a spot near a street corner and leans against the side of a building, letting the hood of his makeshift cloak droop over his forehead as he feigns sleep. Really, though, he is watching the crowds near the cafe, looking for signs of the sky pirate. Balthier told him to meet him here between second and third bell. If Vaan knows one thing about the man, it's that there is not a cell anywhere in Ivalice from which he can't escape. The Nalbina dungeons were supposedly inescapable, after all, and they made it out of there in less than forty-eight hours.

A distant clock tower chimes twice. _That's second bell, _he thinks, relieved. Balthier will be here soon.

The minutes slip by. Vaan remains still, trying not to irritate his injuries. When the clock tower chimes out the quarter-hour, he feels the first stirrings of unease. He shunts his worries aside. Most likely, Balthier has been delayed—he is the type to take a circuitous route if he sees trouble ahead. Soon. He will be here soon.

Fifteen minutes later, the half-hour rings out. Vaan flinches, then pays for the motion when pain crackles across his body. A slight delay is hardly surprising, but half an hour? Balthier is rarely late. Rarely, but it does happen (he was late returning to the _Strahl _last night). But one would think with the seriousness of the situation, he would make a point of showing up on time.

The three-quarter bell rings, and the little worries Vaan has been denying suddenly seem more real, more tangible. Balthier can escape any cell, but . . . but what if he's still at the laboratory? It's been half a day since he would have been captured. Even factoring in time for the effects of the Marlboro gas to wear off, Balthier and Fran would have still woken hours ago. Plenty of time for two highly competent sky pirates to plan and execute an escape. So where are they?

Vaan spends the last fifteen minutes of the hour torn between watching the cafe and watching the clock. As the tower rings out third bell, his anxiety crystallizes into genuine fear. Balthier has many faults, but he does not break his word. If he had escaped, he would be here, but he isn't. Which means he's still at Draklor.


	15. Inconvenient Truths

Chapter Fifteen

Balthier wakes to find himself in a cell.

Admittedly, this is not an uncommon occurrence. He is a thief and a liar by trade, and although he always plans his heists carefully, simple probability demands that he find trouble on occasion.

Manacles bind his hands behind his back, connected by a retracting chain which keeps him from separating his wrists by more than an inch or two. Judging by the ache in his shoulders, he has been restrained for perhaps six hours. A gentle tug reveals that his manacles are connected by a chain to the wall behind him. _Well, that's inconvenient, _he thinks, eyelids sliding open.

The room is fiercely bright, and it takes his pupils almost a minute to contract, during which time he feels like he is staring at the sun. Still under the effects of the Marlboro gas, then. Wonderful. He glances about, searching for Fran and the boy. When he doesn't see them, he concludes they've been quartered separately. Again, inconvenient. But aside from the cuffs, his own accommodations aren't too objectionable. His furnishings consist of a chamber pot, his restraints, and a pallet meant to serve as a bed, if one stretches the term _bed _as far as reasonably possible. Unfortunately, his chains aren't quite slack enough to make lying down a feasible option.

At least the chamber pot is within reach. That will come in handy, if it takes more than an hour or two to orchestrate a daring escape. He doesn't have much to work with. Whoever chained him up thoroughly search him first—the hidden pocket in his sleeve has been ripped open, the lock-picking tools inside confiscated.

Merely an inconvenience, he tells himself, but doubt trickles through his mind.

His eyes flicker around the room again, but he finds nothing even remotely suitable for picking locks. He changes tactics—if mundane means will not avail him, he shall resort to magick. He knows a number of not-quite-legal spells, some learned from Fran, some of his own devising. Magick is a tricky art—there is much more to it than most people know, and the magicks commonly sold to adventurers are only a small collection compared to the vast array of spells available to those with an interest in the arcane. Elemental spells are good for taking down fiends, and protective spells are also useful, but as a sky pirate (and as the son of a man obsessed with the darker turnings of magick), Balthier has a few extra tricks up his sleeve. Concentrating, he envisions a simple spell matrix. Every spell has a pattern to it, geometric in nature, and so long as the user can picture it clearly, there is no need to trace it, though the added step reduces the chance for dangerous errors.

Holding the pattern in his mind, he draws upon the reservoir of Mist that has accumulated in his body, only to find that there is not enough to activate the spell. The first true threads of anxiety weave through his mind. He swears he had more than enough magick to handle any problems that arose during their missions, so why . . . ?

The answer works its way through the haze in his brain: nethicite. This _is _Draklor, after all, and if any prison cell in Ivalice would be lined with enough nethicite to draw the Mist from a living thing, it would be the one he currently occupies.

No lock-picking tools, no allies, no magick, and suddenly the word _inconvenient _no longer seems adequate. Balthier tugs hard at his restraints. Perhaps shoddy craftsmanship will prove the fault in his chains. But no, the manacles are sturdy, unbreakable. He is well and truly trapped.

A noise, beyond the door. Balthier stills, affecting a cocky expression and knowing that his arrogance is the last defense he has. A moment later, the door opens with a mechanical hum, revealing a gaunt man with sunken green eyes and limp brown hair. Balthier recognizes the pin on the man's lapel, designating him as the lead scientist. It's the same pin his father wore once he reached the height of his madness.

"Visited by the head of the facility," he says smoothly. "What an honor." Something nips at the edge of his thoughts—a nagging familiarity. He is missing _something, _to be sure, but what?

Surprise flickers in the scientist's eyes, covered immediately by amusement. "Such a humble greeting. How very unlike you, Ffamran."

And everything stops. The name he abandoned echoes hollowly in the tiny room, but that alone is not what makes his guts turn to ice. It's the voice—the same, too-familiar voice that mocked him through the building's speaker system, now undistorted, now paired with a too-familiar face. Seven years have passed since he stole the _Strahl _and fled, and the man in front of him looks to have aged at least twice that span since, but there can be doubt. Quite abruptly, he knows _exactly _who this man is, and before he can bite back his reflexive hostility, he replies. "And how very like _you_ to follow in our father's footsteps, Lucen."

"So you do remember me." A sly smile touches Lucen's mouth. "Good. It's time we talked." Lucen gestures to someone outside the door; a moment later, an intern hurries inside with a small stool, then withdraws as Lucen sits, hands folded atop his knees.

Balthier leans against the wall, adopting the most casual pose he can. Seven years since he last saw his brother, yet he finds no joy in the reunion. His father was not the only reason he left Archades.

"Firstly," Lucen says, his voice dripping contempt, "allow me to congratulate you on such a lucrative career. I assume you quite enjoy the fame and fortune that come with your lofty position."

"I do believe you mean _infamy_," Balthier says. Placid. Unruffled. "But yes, I do. It seems you enjoy holding onto the reins of history, now that our father has so generously died and left them to you."

Hatred flickers in those pale green eyes. "But of course," he says icily. "However—"

"Granted," Balthier interrupts, "I doubt you even have the slightest idea of what to do now that our dear father isn't guiding your hand anymore."

"And whose fault is that? It certainly wasn't _my_ hand which ended his life." The accusation hangs in the air, unanswered, and Lucen's face contorts. "No witty remarks, _Ffamran_? No noble speeches about laying to rest the sins of the father?" At Balthier's continued silence, the scorn in his eyes glows brighter. "How disappointing. I expected better, even from you. A shred of remorse, perhaps. At the very least, something more than indifference."

"Such a pity, then, that I have nothing but contempt for a man who used his own children as test subjects."

Lucen punches him. Balthier lets his head roll with the impact—holding firm will only result in a broken jaw. His brother's eyes are wild, and in them, he sees a shadow of obsession. "You never did understand his intentions," Lucen says, rising from his stool. "You were always too shortsighted. Everything our father did was for the greater good—so that the fate of Ivalice would no longer be shaped by the will of uncaring gods. He was _brilliant_, Ffamran, and you are nothing—_nothing—_but a failed experiment if you can't see that."

His eyes narrow. Logically, he knows he cannot blame Lucen's madness on anything but the nethicite. Officially, the lab produces only "purified" samples, but it would not surprise him to learn that many of the researchers in this place have been affected by its taint. He was fortunate enough to circumvent most of his father's personal experiments—as the eldest, he was most often the control, the baseline from which his father compared any anomalies among his siblings. Still, considering the state Lucen was in the last time they spoke, he hadn't expected to see him alive again.

"Accuse me of whatever you wish," Balthier says, keeping his tone light. "I care little for the opinions of others."

"Opinions? No, I didn't expect you to put any stock into such things." Lucen laughs, his animosity replaced by feral amusement. "The fate of your companions, on the other hand . . ."

A bubble of rage rises in his throat. There are so few people in the world he cares about, so few people he will risk his life for, and two of them are very likely sitting in the adjacent cells, awaiting whatever fate his brother has in store for them. Fran will endure; that is what she is good at. And Vaan—

_His little thief, staring at him as if he's seen a ghost, and the pain in his eyes hurts Balthier in a way he doesn't understand. _

Vaan has spent his entire life getting up after being beaten down, but even so, he has no experience with the sort of agony a skilled interrogator can inflict. An image of Vaan, bruised and bloody and broken on the floor of a tiny cell, flickers through Balthier's mind, and that image alone makes his voice drop low with threat. "If you have any sense—any sanity at all—you will not so much as _touch _them."

"Oh? And why ever not?"

"Because," and now his voice drops to a murmur, deadly quiet and brimming with rage, "because, brother, I will escape this cell at some point, likely within the next few hours, and if I find that you have harmed either of them, I will inflict the same pain on you a hundred times over."

"Will you?" Lucen's laugh is ugly and false. "I would so love to see you try."

"What is it you want?" Balthier snaps. His wrists ache from straining against the manacles, and his pulse thumps in his throat, quick and hard with fury.

His brother smirks, leaning so close that Balthier can smell the medicinal taint in his breath, see the individual flecks of color in his greenish-brown eyes. Close, so close, but still out of striking range. "What I want, dear brother, is to see you punished for killing our father. I want to see you live to regret it."

"He was a madman."

"He was a genius."

"He performed _experiments _on us."

"All in the name of the greater good."

Balthier has never liked the "greater good." In his experience, anyone who claims to be doing something for the "greater good" is merely saying it to justify their own reprehensible actions. Worse still, there is no effective argument against someone making such a claim, because the "greater good" is too vague a goal to deconstruct. "You are a fool," he says instead, wishing his wit were sharper, wishing he could think through the lingering effects of the Marlboro gas.

"Perhaps," Lucen says, standing. "But if I am a fool, then I am a fool with power, and that, Ffamran, is the most dangerous thing in the world."


	16. False Identities

_Author's Notes:_

_Reviews are to writers as treasure is to sky pirates: a reward and an incentive all bundled up in one. This chapter is dedicated to the anonymous reader who left a wonderfully thorough review on the last chapter which spurred me to finish this one now instead of waiting for the post-NaNoWriMo update spree in December._

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

_A fool with power, _Balthier thinks as Lucen departs the cell. _A dangerous thing indeed. _

His only option is to free himself and retrieve Fran and Vaan, yet without tools or magicks, that's a difficult proposition. He has managed supposedly impossible escapes before, but in all truth, it's easy enough to find your way out of a dungeon. As long as you have half a wit and a bit of inside information (which can nearly always be tricked or cajoled out of the guards), no cell is secure. The only other factor is time—time to plan, time to set all the pieces in motion, time to collect or craft any tools you might need.

As the door opens again, Balthier realizes that time is a resource he has precious little of. "Back already?" he sneers. "I'd thought you'd have something better to do, now that you're the head of the facility."

Lucen regards him coolly, pushing a wheeled cart ahead him. Atop it sits a collection of knives, needles, pliers, and other such implements. A number of them would make fine lock-picking tools, if Balthier could only reach them, but it's obvious these are intended for a much darker purpose.

"Ah, Ffamran, don't you understand?" Lucen says, taking a pair of pliers from the cart. The overhead lights glint against the sleek metal, stark and sterile. "I always make time for family."

* * *

Vaan doesn't linger outside the cafe. There's no point. Balthier would be here, if he were able. Vaan has to believe that, because the alternative—that Balthier has abandoned him here, in this city of steel and secrets—does not bear thinking about.

Still hurting from his perilous escape from Draklor, he makes his way to Nilbasse. If Fran escaped, she will be waiting for him outside the weapons shop. It is equally possible that she's wherever Balthier is, imprisoned, and that they are working on discovering a way out, but if not, she will at least attempt to rendezvous with him.

In his condition, it takes half an hour to get to Nilbasse, and another ten minutes to find the weapons shop. He circles the building, trying to look casual. People glance disgustedly at his outfit—a ragged blanket fashioned into a cloak, plus the pipe he's using as a crutch. Beggar's clothes. In a way, their scorn is a relief. If they notice his clothes, it means they're not looking too closely at his face.

He repeats his circuit around the weapons shop three times, then ducks inside in case Fran is hiding there. A viera outside the Golmore Jungle should draw attention, yet everyone seems to be watching _him_. Discomfited, he checks each aisle and leaves.

No Balthier. No Fran. He is running out of allies in this city, but there's still one person he can turn to. Larsa has kept in touch this past year (mostly with Penelo, Vaan admits, but it still counts). If anyone has the power to investigate what's going on in Draklor, it's the young emperor.

Vaan still has those stupid chops he spent so long gathering last time he was in the city. He grabbed them the last time he left the _Strahl_, and they serve him well as he approaches one of the sky-taxis. The driver doesn't comment on his clothes, and if he finds it strange to see a beggar carrying enough chops to qualify as gentry, he doesn't show it. Vaan sits in the back seat, rubbing his shin. He's done what he can about his injuries, and anyway, they're not the worst he's lived through.

No. The worst thing he's lived through happened a year ago. The day of the battle for Rabanastre. The day his world had ended. There have been many times in his life when he'd thought he'd lost everything—his brother, his parents, his heroes. Yet those tragedies had come about through no fault of his own. They had been inevitable, and though those deaths had driven him to despair and loathing, a part of him had known they'd been out of his control.

With Balthier, it was different. He'd been there, heard the man's false reassurances, had all the requisite information to realize that he was being duped . . . and had put it together too late. Balthier and Fran had ostensibly sacrificed their lives to fly the _Bahamut _away from the city, and Vaan had been left in a maelstrom of guilt and grief for not stopping them.

_Why did you care? _the darkest corner of his mind whispers. _Why let yourself become so broken? They weren't family. Most of the time, they treated you like you weren't even there. What good does it do to care about them when they never cared about you? _

"Excuse me? Sir? We've arrived at your destination."

His eyelids slide open. He regards the sky-taxi driver dully, then pushes the door open. "Thanks." Pain ricocheting along his body, he stumbles down the streets. These are nicer than those in other sections of the city, not only in good repair, but also clean, scrubbed of dirt and other debris. Men in gold-buttoned coats and women in fine silks walk here and there, but a greater number of people wear the armor of Imperials.

Vaan slides into the shadow of a merry brick building with ivy climbing up the sides. Will the chops in his pocket protect him from being arrested? He doubts it. More likely, the guards will see his bedraggled clothing and assume he stole them. _I really should have thought this through. _

He considers his options. Getting to the palace will be difficult enough. Getting an audience with Larsa, in his condition, solely on the veracity of his words . . . Balthier could do it, but Balthier could do anything. While Vaan's command of language might be superior to most street urchins, it is leagues away from the elaborate rhetoric and clever manipulation Balthier so easily applies. No, words alone won't be enough to get him an audience with Larsa. There has to be another way.

He could sneak in, use the same Vanish spell Balthier had used to get them into Draklor unnoticed. That would require more magick than he currently has, but there are a few tonics in the _Strahl _that could give him the boost he needs. But for all he knows, the _Strahl _is already compromised, seized on the orders of whoever was in charge of Draklor's security. No magick, nowhere to go, no allies he can get to.

Except . . . there's _one _person he can go to besides Larsa, one person who can't bring himself to ignore a call for help.

Determined, Vaan continues toward the palace, ignoring the pains of his body, the stares of the passersby. He tries to appear calm, at ease, wearing his beggar's clothes like a gentleman's finery. Another lesson Balthier has taught him: most people will believe a lie if it's delivered with confidence.

As he reaches the short bridge leading to the palace, a pair of imperials finally stops him. "Halt," one of them says, holding up a hand. "State your business here."

A year of hiding his grief has honed his ability to deceive others, so the lie rolls off his tongue, smooth as honey. "I have an urgent message for Judge Magister Gabranth of Lord Larsa's personal retinue," he says, mimicking Balthier's lofty accent.

The soldiers exchange glances, though how they can interpret each other's expressions through their eye-slits alone mystifies him. The first soldier turns back to Vaan. "State your message."

"I am to deliver it to him personally, at the behest of Lady Amalia of Rabanastre," Vaan says. It's a risk—if they suspect he's trying to get into the palace for any reason other than delivering a message, they could detain him. But with Balthier captured and the _Strahl _out of reach, his options are limited.

The soldiers chuckle, the sound tinny inside their helms. "A fine jest, boy, but you'd best be on your way before someone arrests you for leaving your hovel in Old Archades."

_Isn't that your job? _he thinks. Then, in the haughtiest tone he can manage, he says, "Have you any idea what I've done to deliver this message? My belongings were stolen in the Nalbina aerodome nearly a fortnight ago—I had to tromp through the Salikawood, along the Phon Coast, and across the Tchita Uplands, only to find myself stopped at the gates before even being admitted to this bloody city. I've spent the last five hours arguing with every official that has crossed my path, and I am _quite _tired of being asked to produce documents which—as I may have mentioned—were wrongfully taken from me by some cutpurse in Nalbina. So either you allow me to pass, or you bring Judge Magister Gabranth here, immediately, so that I may _finally _deliver my message."

The soldiers glance at each other again, less certain now. Vaan waits, holding his expression of aristocratic disdain, praying they cannot see his pulse pounding in his throat. One wrong word from these two and Balthier and Fran won't be the only ones rotting in a cell.

"We will send for him at once," says the second soldier. "Please make yourself comfortable in the plaza."

_I can't believe that worked. _"Thank you," Vaan says stiffly, striding over to one of the unoccupied benches near the bridge. It's a relief to sit, but he doesn't let it show on his face. As Balthier would say, only a fool lowers his sword before the wolf is out of earshot.

The minutes slip past, the sun moving in its inexorable path through the sky. Every second that ticks by is another second that Balthier is trapped in Draklor. Vaan is not naïve enough to think that he has been transported to a more mundane prison. More likely, the sky pirate is being interrogated by Draklor's security teams, so that they can determine how he got in and what he was after.

A quarter of an hour passes, and he begins to wonder if he's blundered. _What's taking so long? _Do the guards suspect him of something? Are they preparing to arrest him? Does "Gabranth" think Vaan's request is a trap?

The sound of heavy, armored footfalls pulls him from his reverie. He lifts his head, ready to bolt, then nearly sags in relief as he recognizes the figure in elaborate silver armor marching toward him. When he catches the man's eye, the steady footsteps falter.

"Your Honor, is something wrong?" asks the soldier who stopped Vaan at the bridge.

"No, sergeant. Carry on." The judge crosses the bridge and walks to the bench where Vaan is sitting, removing his helmet to reveal cropped blond hair and a long scar across his forehead. "Has something happened?" he asks, voice lowered. "Princ—Queen Ashelia, is she—"

"Ashe is fine," Vaan says, forcing a smile. "Good to see you again, Basch."


	17. A Clever Ruse

Chapter Seventeen

Basch's eyes flicker toward the soldiers behind him. "We shouldn't speak here," he says in his quiet, measured voice.

"No kidding." Vaan scowls. He's learned a lot in the past two years, and he's given up his hatred of the Empire. Really, he has. But it's still hard, sometimes, to push back the surge of resentment he feels when he sees those suits of armor, particularly now, with Balthier and Fran trapped in Draklor.

He stands, grimacing, and Basch's ever-watchful eyes sharpen. Vaan shrugs, then tilts his head toward the palace. Explanations will have to wait until they're away from listening ears. After a moment, Basch dons his helmet again—a gaudy thing with curving silver horns and an eternally stern face—and gestures for him to follow.

The guards at the gate let him pass without a word. Vaan resists the impulse to stick his tongue out at them while their backs are turned.

Basch leads him through an ornate doorway, which opens up into a long hallway draped in banners bearing the sigil of House Solidor. It's the only Archadian family sigil Vaan recognizes on sight, and even though Larsa's on the throne now, the profusion of flags sets him ill at ease. Thankfully, the next hallway they enter is less stately than comfortable, lit with warmly glowing magicite lamps. They proceed halfway down the corridor, then enter a small sitting room centered around a table etched with an intricate map of the city. "It should be safe to talk here, so long as we keep our voices down."

Vaan nods absently, but checks the window and closet to make sure no one's eavesdropping. Whoever trapped them in Draklor knew they were coming, and that means they'll expect another visit soon. Even the tiniest scrap of information in the enemy's hands could be catastrophic.

"I've never seen you so wary," Basch says quietly. "What's happened?"

"Balthier and Fran have been captured. They're in Draklor, and I need your help getting them out."

"Captured? You mean to say they're alive?"

Oh. Right. Quickly, Vaan summarizes the past few days, starting with waking up to find the _Strahl _in midair and his dead mentor not quite as dead as he thought. After the initial look of shock, Basch's face settles into a serious expression, and by the time Vaan explains how they infiltrated Draklor, the man's face is stony.

"This isn't good," Basch says when Vaan finishes.

"Exactly! That's why we need to go in there and get them out."

"I will speak on this with Lord Larsa." Basch starts for the door. "He will be able to order them released."

Vaan hesitates. "Actually, I kinda figured the two of us would just go in and bust 'em out." When Basch only stares at him, he fidgets, casting his eyes about. "I mean, it's not like it would be the first time we've broken into Draklor. Besides, Larsa's probably busy running an empire and stuff."

"I'm sure he can spare a few minutes to send an inquiry."

"An inquiry," he repeats. "You don't really believe that whoever's in charge of Draklor is going to admit they have him—them—prisoner. Come on, Basch, they're corrupt and you know it."

Doubt flickers in the captain's eyes. "Very well," he says at last. "We will leave a missive explaining the situation, to be delivered if we do not return by tomorrow morning. As for today, I will visit the laboratory on the pretext of an inspection. If I find anything, we can discuss it tonight. In the meantime, you should rest. I can send someone to take care of your injuries."

"You're leaving me behind?" Unthinking, he jumps to his feet, only for javelins of pain to shoot up his legs. He stumbles, bashing his hip against the table as he tries to right himself. He's spent too much of his life hiding his pain to cry out, but a glance at Basch's face is all it takes to know that his wince hasn't gone unnoticed.

"Sometimes tenacity must yield to wisdom," Basch says, resting an armored hand on Vaan's shoulder. "They may recognize you. Better that I go—I have the authority to bypass even their most rigorous security features."

Vaan seethes. Why does everyone treat him like a child? He's used to it from Balthier, but he thought Basch, at least, had stopped thinking of him as some reckless adolescent. He wants to demand he be allowed to go, but what good will it do, except prove he really _is _childish? "Fine," he says, sitting down and crossing his arms. "But if this doesn't work out, we do it my way."

"Aye." With a final nod, Basch steps out, leaving Vaan to wait.

* * *

A healer arrives a few minutes later, towing a cart of potions, antidotes, bandages, and other tinctures and tonics behind her. Vaan regards her suspiciously as she tends to his wounds and refuses the painkillers she offers. He almost refuses the potion as well—for all he knows, she is an agent of Draklor—except that he really _does _need it. Still, as soon as she leaves, he uses what little magick he has left for a Poisona spell, purging any undetected toxins from his body.

Legs healed, he paces the length of the small room. He hates being left behind, but this isn't the first time. In hindsight, it's easy to see that the older members of their group always saw him and Penelo as kids. Included but not often informed, or sent off to resupply and "gather information" from the locals while the others met with dignitaries and leaders. Always an afterthought. Now it's happening again, except this time it's worse, because he has nothing to distract him—no tasks, no excuse to wander around and explore. Nothing but this cramped room with its fine furniture that no one ever uses.

_Keep it together, _he tells himself and continues pacing.

* * *

"Sir, a judge just arrived in the lobby."

Balthier stills, though his hands continue to tremble slightly, an effect of the blood he's lost and the sharp pains of his battered body. How long has he been here? A few hours? A day? The steady light of the panels keeps him from judging time properly, and his pocketwatch was taken along with his weapons and lock-picking tools. Not that it really matters how long he's been in here. Only Fran and Vaan know he's been captured, and they're both in cells of their own. With luck, they have not received as much personal attention as he has.

"A judge?" Lucen turns toward the soldier in the doorway, annoyance glimmering in his cool eyes. "Whatever for?"

"He says he's here to conduct an inspection on behalf of Emperor Larsa."

This piques Balthier's interest. "Emperor Larsa, you say? And here I thought this place hadn't any oversight whatsoever."

His brother flicks a disdainful glance in his direction, but otherwise ignores him. "I shall be down shortly. In the meantime, ensure that our dutiful inspector is comfortable."

"Sir." The guard salutes and marches off to carry out his appointed task.

Lucen closes the door, turning to look down at Balthier. "I must say, I'm impressed. I hadn't anticipated you leaving a fuse behind in the event you got yourself captured. I'd assumed you'd cut all ties with this city after you abandoned it to become a criminal. Who else is working with you?"

_No one_. "Perhaps the Emperor has decided to clear the rats out of his city at last." He can use this, he thinks. Make enough noise at the right time, alert the judge, whoever he is, to his presence. True, he will most likely end up in another cell, but with luck, it will not be as inescapable as the one he currently inhabits. If he handles himself deftly, he might even get this place shut down for a time.

"You still believe providence will save you," Lucen remarked. "I knew you were a fool, but I never knew how much. That said, you can set aside any hope of being discovered here. This is a large complex. It is a simple enough matter to redirect any attention away from this wing, should it be necessary."

"Go on, then. Entertain your _guests_. I'm sure they'll be much more interested in your drivel than I." He hears his voice shaking and tells himself it's merely a result of the toll these past hours have taken on his body, rather than the stresses upon his mind. Pain, he can endure—considering the life he has lived, it is largely inconsequential. But there is something about being trapped, restrained to the small radius allowed by his chains, that pushes past his defenses to chafe against something deeper. A bird should not be confined to a cage.

Lucen regards him a moment more, then turns and presses several buttons on the keypad, opening the door. Balthier has, of course, already memorized the code, but that will be of little avail if he can't get these damned manacles off. As soon as Lucen is gone, he continues his work, twisting his wrists in their restraints, testing whether or not he'll be able to slip them. Perhaps if he dislocates his thumbs. It's an unpleasant thought, and it may not even work, but if he can make it out of this cell, he may yet be able to quit this place.

He tries not to entertain the notion that he might never make it that far, but the thought lurks at the edges of his mind. Vaan and Fran are still in peril, and he has no doubt that Lucen will hurt them to punish him. Escape is not merely important—it is _vital_. Because if he cannot find his way out of here, his companions will likely fare no better.

_There is no such thing as an inescapable cell, _he tells himself, eyes flicking to the cart his brother left behind. Like the keypad, it is beyond his reach, but the various implements on it will make for suitable tools if he can get to them. The longer he spends here, the more his condition deteriorates. Not only does he need to escape; he needs to do it soon, and this surprise inspection may be the only time he is left alone long enough to do so.

His plan, in the end, is risky but simple. He kneels on the bloodied pallet, closing his eyes and breathing slow and deep. It takes a great deal of concentration to relax his shoulders and arms, more than he'd been able to manage under Lucen's torture, but he manages to loosen strained muscles and ligaments. When his arms are suitably limp, he folds one thumb just so, pressing it against the edge of the cuffs, trying not to think about what he's about to do.

Then, as calmly as any man of impeccable breeding ought to be, he wrenches his hand through the manacles, dislocating his thumb and slipping free with a truncated grunt of agony. It's not quite enough to make him faint (though his vision does go spotty for a moment), and with one hand free, he is able to extend his reach far enough to wrap his fingertips around the base of the cart and drag it closer.

From there, it is a simple matter of selecting an appropriate tool (he goes with a pointy silver implement with a wickedly sharp hook at the end, ignoring the fact that said hook is crusted with his blood from Lucen's ministrations), and within a bare handful of seconds, he unlocks the other manacle and revels briefly in having both hands free before standing up—and then sitting down _hard _when a wave of dizziness threatens to topple him.

Perhaps this is not as wise a plan as it first appeared.

It takes him two more tries before he is confident in his ability to stand without fainting, and even then, his hands tremble in weakness as he rifles through the cart's contents until coming up with a knife as long as his hand. It is not an ideal weapon—minimal reach, without the heft to pierce the armor of Draklor's guards—but it is better than the rest (the rest being pliers, hooks, salt, torches, and other implements which are quite suited for inflicting tiny, agonizing wounds, but have little place in an actual fight).

Armed, he staggers over to the keypad, typing in the code with trembling fingers. The door opens with a hiss, alerting the guards outside, but Balthier is ready for them. The first guard dies when Balthier slides the knife through the tiny gap connecting the man's helmet to the rest of his armor. The second approaches more cautiously, moving to block the doorway, but Balthier throws his full weight at the man, as if he were breaking down a door, and manages to shove his way past as the guard bellows for backup.

Balthier sprints down the corridor, bypassing the rows of other cells (without knowing which cells are holding his companions, he cannot afford to waste time opening them one by one), in favor of a triangle-shaped door rimmed with blue phosphor. Several men and women in dusky coats cry out as he flings himself through the door, but these are researchers, not soldiers, and none of them have the presence of mind to intercept him as he pushes through their ranks and rakes his fingers across the control panel at the back of the room, opening not only the cell doors, but jamming the elevators and the bulkheads so his escape route cannot easily be cut off.

By then, the guards have arrived in the control room. Before they can advance, Balthier seizes the nearest researcher, spinning her around and pressing his knife against her throat. "Not a step closer," he says in a voice like steel and thunder.

"Hold your fire," the lead guard says to the pair of crossbowmen behind him. For the first time since his frantic race to the control room, Balthier feels a flash of fear at how near he is to dying from a crossbow bolt through the eye. There's a fair chance at least one of them will miss and hit his hostage, which is likely the only reason he hasn't been shot yet, but he still isn't particularly fond of his odds. There's also the little detail that if they _do _shoot his hostage, he'll have lost what little leverage he has, not to mention being responsible for indirectly causing the death of an (arguably) innocent woman.

"Release her, and we will escort you back to your cell unharmed," the lead soldier says. "Resist, and we will shoot."

The woman in his arms lets out a soft whimper. "P-please," she whispers, on the edge of a sob, and in that moment she is not merely leverage—she is a person, a person who he has terrified and made powerless in his desperation to improve his own circumstances—and Balthier cannot help but think that this is exactly what his father would have done in his position.

Balthier releases the woman, letting the knife clatter to the floor as she scurries to the edge of the room, weeping. As soon as she is out of the way, the guards advance, seizing his hands and cuffing them once more before hauling him back into the hallway to return to his cell. This time, when they chain him to the wall, they leave only enough slack for him to kneel awkwardly on his pallet and pray that this disturbance has drawn the attention of today's surprise inspector.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_

_Hey, everyone. Long time no see, huh? Like, more than a year. Yeah . . . I'm _really _sorry about how long this took. It's been a bit of a rough year for me. The coffee shop where I worked closed due to a dispute with corporate, and a couple months later, after I followed my bosses to another restaurant they owned, that place closed down, too, due to legal fees related to the aforementioned coffee shop dispute. Even so, I really should have had this chapter up sooner. I know you guys have been waiting on it for a long time, and I will try to do better in the future, but for now it's probably best that I don't make any promises._

_In slightly happier news, I recently beta'ed an original novel. It's a male/male romance about a man who gets stuck in a magical snowglobe and falls in love with the wizard inside, only to realize that he's carrying a secret that could change their relationship forever.__ The title is _The Wizard's Desire, _and you can find it on Amazon. At the time of this posting, you can get it for $0.99 as an ebook, but this is a limited-time offer, so I recommend downloading it within the next couple days, before the price goes up. If ebooks aren't your thing, it will also be available in paperback within the next few weeks, though these will be a little pricier, due to printing costs. I've included a short blurb below for those of you who are interested, and I hope you'll enjoy the story as much as I did.  
_

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Blurb for_ The Wizard's Desire_

Kei has had enough of wizards and magic interfering with his life. A terrible accident in his childhood left his parents' memories ruined: they no longer remember him. In the years since, Kei has lived a normal life as a firefighter, keeping his relationships distant so he can't be hurt again.

But magic destroys and injures. On the run from his mistakes, Orion will do anything to escape his past—even isolate himself in a magical snow globe. When a desperate situation arises and Orion uses his magic to alter the walls of his snow globe, he accidentally opens a pathway to the outside world. Orion can't risk anyone entering... but he can't risk using his magic again, either.

Orion isn't prepared for the firefighter who falls into his snow globe. Kei is a balm to Orion's loneliness, and despite Kei's distrust of wizards, he begins to see the real person behind Orion's flirting—a brave man who protects those he loves. Unable to help himself, Kei falls in love... until he discovers that Orion's secrets may have everything to do with his own difficult past.


End file.
